Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Wolcott family lived in the historic part of Beacon Hills where the houses had all been made before the 1930s, all of them passed down from generation to generation, and permission was needed in order to do renovations of any kind. And even if you gained approval from the city board, the owners still had to stay within code and not change the actual layout of said home or alter the building too drastically.

This home in particular was a two-story brick one with an unfinished basement. Four steps lead up to the front door, the iron railing on either side covered with bushy garland intertwined with white lights. A sizable wreath decorated with pine cones and a red bow stood out against a burgundy door and a full Christmas tree decorated with tasteful white lights and gold balls was visible through the front bay window.

Deputy Derek Hale might've been scowling at it. There was no proof really.

Except the odd look his partner Jordan Parrish was giving him, but that was easy to ignore. The red bows on either side of the mailbox by the driveway, however, were not. Not because they were big or gaudy, oh no. Derek was sure there were neighborhood codes and standards all the homes on that street had to adhere to when it came to decorating for the holidays. No, they were hard to ignore solely because of what they meant.

Christmas was four only days away.

Shit.

It wasn't that Derek was anti-Christmas or anti-any holiday for that matter, he just wasn't too thrilled about the reminder that came along with it. Mainly the one event that had taken place three years ago that he did his best to pretend never happened the other three-hundred-sixty-four days in the year. Coming up on the anniversary of it made it a little harder to ignore. And the fact that it coincided with the biggest holiday of the year meant that his usual habit of acting like it hadn't taken place was practically impossible.

So yeah, Christmas was fine by itself. Christmas Eve and what had happened on it a couple years prior sucked ass though.

Stamping feet brought him back to the present and he turned his head to his right to witness his partner blowing air into his cupped hands. Cocking an eyebrow, he folded his arms over his chest, the nylon fabric of his department issue windbreaker rustling with the action.

Parrish noticed the questioning look he was being given and dropped his hands, choosing to rub them together roughly and create friction to warm them. “What?” he asked innocently, shrugging a lean shoulder under his own jacket, his thicker and zipped all the way to the top while Derek's hung loose and open. “Not all of us are Supernatural creatures with high internal body temps and an ability to stay warm no matter the weather.”

Derek bobbed his eyebrows in concession, knowing his partner had a point. Being born a Werewolf and raised around them, he sometimes forgot that not everyone was able to regulate their temperature as easily as him. It had led to a lot of grumbling reminders from a certain human that had been in his life when he showed up to a loft without heat turned on or when said human had burrowed further under the covers, ice-cold toes pressed against warm calves in what he called revenge for being so damn warm all the time and how it was Derek's job to make sure the human was warm and happy and sated.

“It's what a good boyfriend would do, Der. What a good Mate would do.”

He swallowed hard against the memories, shoving the familiar voice out of his mind, rubbing his eyes as though that could get rid of the mental image of cupid's bow lips turned into a wicked grin because he knew exactly what he'd been doing by using the “M-word” with his Werewolf partner.

Turning his head back to the front door, Derek watched as it swung open and two EMTs carted out a stretcher holding an occupied body bag. That was the whole reason why they were there in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. The other two were probably still being put in their own body bags.

Sean Wolcott, age seventeen, had shown up at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital with bloodied hands and feet, panting wildly. He'd managed to gasp out that his family had been killed before passing out due to exhaustion, having run the fifteen miles to the emergency room in order to get away from the murderer who was still in his home. The Sheriff's Department had been called to investigate, leading to Derek and Parrish being ordered to check out the Wolcott home and discovering the dead bodies of Micheal, Christina, and David Wolcott. Mom, Dad, eldest son, all with multiple stab wounds, all having bled out in their respective bedrooms.

Parrish had called it in while Derek tried to catch a scent of the killer, finding nothing but a dead end through a copse of trees out back and down another street, where the perp had obviously gotten into a car and sped off. When he'd arrived back at the Wolcott's, CSU was there, as well as the medical examiner and the sheriff himself. The entire property was roped off with crime scene tape and a sizable crowd had gathered on the street despite the late/early hour.

Derek stifled another yawn at the realization that it was now past three am, reminding himself that he'd pulled all-nighters in college and at the academy, not to mention on full moons, so really, staying up late was no big deal. He was a Werewolf. He could handle running on little to no sleep.

He refused to think about other times when he'd been up late and who he'd been up late with and why. Last time they'd done that, the guy had bolted, stuttering and stammering and reeking of anxiety. He'd disappeared the next day with just a letter saying he was sorry and not to look for him.

Shaking his head rapidly to rid himself of the thought, he watched as the third stretcher was carefully lowered down the steps, the sheriff following with the ME, nodding at whatever the examiner was saying. Derek focused his hearing and listened in, catching the tail end of their conversation.

“—full report on your desk by the end of the day tomorrow. Or rather today, I suppose,” the ME stated, ending it with a sigh. The guy had obviously been dragged outta bed, hair still mussed from sleep, the shirt beneath his own nylon windbreaker clearly part of a pajama set, no socks on underneath his sneakers. But when the sheriff calls you about a multiple homicide, you drop everything and go, no matter what you were up to beforehand. Socks were easily forgotten and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

At least he'd remembered his glasses though.

The sheriff nodded, shaking the guy's hand, grim expression on his face. Not that anyone could blame him. Aside from the occasional minor offense—speeding, shoplifting, teenagers fooling around at the Look-Out, a break-in here and there—Beacon Hills was a quiet town, low on crime. Sure every now and then they'd have a rogue Werewolf in the area, but that happened pretty much everywhere and their town hadn't seen one since Scott McCall and Jackson Whittemore had both been Bitten six years ago. A B&E with a triple homicide attached—and a possible attempted homicide, depending on what Sean Wolcott would say when he woke up—was miles beyond what they usually dealt with and it was obviously taking a toll on the man in charge of protecting the citizens of their fine county.

Not to mention all the personal shit the sheriff had been through, Derek realized. The holiday had to be just as hard, if not worse, for his boss than it was for Derek.

Sheriff John Stilinski stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the ground as the ME walked off, heaving a great sigh of his own. His blue eyes flipped up to the house and if Derek didn't know any better, he'd swear the older man was staring at that damnable Christmas tree in the front window. The Werewolf listened as his boss' heart skipped a beat then thudded a little slower, watched as he checked his cell phone then slumped his shoulders in disappointment before sliding it back into his pocket. No new messages, Derek supposed.

Shoring himself up, Stilinski turned and headed over to where his two deputies were waiting on the driveway, Parrish with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso to stave off the cold, Derek with his own limbs crossed in a more authoritative stance. It wasn't that he thought he should be more dominant over Stilinski. No, his human mind recognized the other man as his elder, as his superior, as his work Alpha for all intents and purposes, not to mention the guy had multiple personal connections to the Werewolf, including being an old family friend. But the Werewolf part of him still felt a little superior to the human male, knew it was higher on the food chain, and despite laws saying humans and Supernatural creatures were equals, his wolf still felt a little cocky and above the sheriff at times.

He rolled his shoulders and assumed a more business-like stance, telling his wolf to get a grip and reminding it of its place, of the sheriff's place and the role he had in their lives. Shutting off that part of himself was a little difficult, but he did so, focusing on his boss and their newest case, eyes narrowed as he watched the other man stop in front of his two deputies.

“ME says the wounds were created by a weapon, no claws or fangs,” the sheriff stated, his voice gruff with lack of sleep and hard with authority. He was in full Sheriff Mode, evident from his tone and his stance, the way he held his body high and tight, the way his jaw ticked and clenched. His blue eyes held a sympathetic sadness that Derek had seen countless times when the law enforcement official was dealing with a crime of any description, the look one that made him more personable and constantly re-elected to his position. The Werewolf knew this case in particular was gonna weigh heavily on his boss, would most likely add another wrinkle to his face and more gray to his hair. He'd seen a lot more of those show up over the past three years, another thing Derek couldn't blame him for.

He shoved that thought aside just like all the rest, hating himself for thinking so much about that. It was the upcoming holiday, he figured, the reminder that it was almost three years to the very day.

“So we're looking for a human perp?” Parrish double-checked, catching Derek's attention and bringing him back into the present and the conversation.

The sheriff bobbed his head to the side in a “maybe” fashion, bottom lip pulled tight and revealing his teeth. “Most likely,” he agreed, not sounding entirely convinced. “But there's always the possibility that it is a Supe, maybe a trickster leading us to believe it was human.” His eyes flicked over to Derek at the slang-term for his kind, a reflex to make sure the Werewolf wasn't offended by the word. Which he wasn't, and the sheriff knew that. Besides, Derek had heard and had been called worse. Hell, he even used the term “Supe”. Was just easier really.

Derek shook his head, more in response to the sheriff's theory than anything. “The scent was human,” he pointed out, scrubbing a hand over his whisker-covered jaw, thinking back to the scent trail he'd followed. “And there was more than one.”

Stilinski let out a sigh that seemed to take everything out of him, his head hanging as he nodded. The Werewolf could smell the anxiety ratchet up in his boss, could practically taste the aggravation and the fatigue rolling off the human. “Great,” he muttered sarcastically, rubbing the back of his neck in a move that was achingly familiar. “Just wonderful.” He lifted his head at that, folding his arms over his chest as his face closed off and tensed up. “So, not only do we have three more bodies to add to our growing list of recent homicides, but we're looking for more than one do-er.”

Parrish flicked his eyes over to his partner, the move too quick for their human boss to pick up on, and Derek felt himself shrinking slightly at the weight of the sheriff's narrowed gaze. He looked and smelled completely annoyed and just done with the whole thing, yet knew he had no choice but to do his job, to find the perp—well, perps now—and get justice for their growing list of victims. Which after that night, was now up to five.

Assuming they were all connected, of course. So far, there was no evidence linking any of the cases, aside from the fact that all five victims were stabbed to death.

But identical causes of death aside, there was no real correlation between them all. The first victim was a beer delivery guy in his early-thirties known for selling kegs to teenagers for a small fee. The second was a seventeen year old girl who attended a private school on scholarship. Now the Wolcotts, a well-off family who came from old money and lived on opposite sides of town as the other two vics. Nothing in common between any of them, nothing linking them, aside from a feeling in Derek's gut that it was all somehow related.

Yet despite this gut-feeling, he knew he couldn't say anything. There was nothing to back it up and therefore nothing to investigate and the sheriff would state that he wasn't about to waste the department's time on a wild goose chase simply because Derek had a feeling. It wasn't how things were done.

So instead he pressed his lips into a hard line and flicking his eyes down, nodding and feeling like crap for adding to the sheriff's already full load. Not that any of it was his fault. He didn't kill anyone, he didn't hire anyone to kill the Wolcotts or DeMarco Montana or Carrie Hudson. He also wouldn't kill those of his kind—not without a good reason anyway—which were what DeMarco and Carrie were: other Werewolves.

The Wolcotts didn't smell like Weres though, ruling out that link.

He lifted his head to see the sheriff nodding distractedly, rubbing the back of his neck once again. His blue eyes were distant, lower lip pulled tight and displaying his bottom teeth once again, seemingly thinking something over. Derek turned away to watch as the ambulances pulled off, corpses of the Wolcott family loaded in the back and being taken to the ME's office for further investigation and analysis. Some of the crowd dispersed, having decided here was nothing else interesting that they were gonna see that night and that they might as well get some sleep. Derek felt a slight twinge of jealousy at their ability to do so, wishing he could head to bed and snooze himself. Preferably for several days. Maybe even years. Pulling a Rip Van Winkle sounded damn good at that point.

Footsteps on his left caught his attention and he focused on another deputy, Vernon Boyd, making his way over. His features were as stoic as ever, although there was a slight frown pulling at his eyebrows, tensing up the corner of his eyes. He paused between Derek and the sheriff, towering over them both, his windbreaker nowhere to be found.

“Sheriff,” he began respectfully, waiting until the mentioned male looked up at him before continuing. “There's a young lady here demanding to speak to you. Says it's urgent and that she can help.”

The sheriff frowned in confusion, turning to the crowd, Derek and Parrish doing the same. The Werewolf scanned the thinning assemblage, noting the recent arrival of a news van, camera crew already set up, reporter readying her microphone and fiddling with her in-ear. But the blonde wasn't whom Boyd had been referring to and the elder Werewolf knew it the second he inhaled and caught the scent of jasmine, sage, and Chanel perfume.

Lydia Martin.

He smeared a hand roughly over his face, hearing Stilinski order Boyd to bring her over, ignoring the way Parrish's scent seemed to light up with joy and his heart began pounding at the sight of his crush. Derek barely resisted the urge to mutter out a few choice swears, choosing instead to roll his eyes at his partner's reaction. It wasn't that he didn't like Lydia or thought there was anything wrong with Parrish having a thing for her. He just wasn't too keen on the reminders that Lydia unintentionally brought along with her.

Not that he could really blame her for that. It wasn't really her fault that her best guy friend had up and abandoned Derek without a word to either one of them aside from a pathetic goodbye.

At least Derek had gotten a note. As far as he knew, Lydia hadn't gotten anything. Made her a good person to rant with though. Although really it was more of her ranting, having more balls than he ever could to show up at a barely known acquaintance's house to yell about his pathetic and idiotic excuse of an ex-boyfriend. Still, it made the Werewolf glad to know he wasn't the only one cursing the guy out in his mind, only to turn around and start crying about how much the jackass was missed. Granted he never cried in front of anyone else about it and he still had no clue how to react when Lydia would cling desperately to him, bawling in a way that would've been ugly on anyone else yet she still managed to pull it off.

His ex had complimented her on that fact several times, seemingly awed by every single thing Lydia Martin did. Derek pretended he wasn't jealous of that and denied any insinuations otherwise.

So while he had nothing against Lydia as a person and was fully capable of exchanging cordial pleasantries whenever she stopped by the sheriff's department because she “happened to be in the neighborhood and wow, Parrish, I had no idea you were on shift right now, what a coincidence”, he wasn't too thrilled with her appearance at that moment, solely due to the fact that he was having enough issues focusing and trying not to think of his ex without having his best female friend and former crush showing up.

Lydia practically jogged over to the khaki-clad group on the driveway, nude pumps clicking on the tarred ground, hand holding her trench closed over what appeared to be a nightgown judging by the peeks Derek got through the openings of the pink wool. Her red—“strawberry blonde,” a familiar voice mentally corrected him—hair was tangled from her rush out of her house—a lot like the ME—and her green eyes were wide, a wild look in them as they focused on the sheriff to her left.

“Lydia,” Stilinski gently greeted her, his own eyes softening a bit at the female. Derek tried to ignore the bitter taste the sight brought to his mouth, tried to ignore the more self-conscious thoughts he had and the self-deprecating belief that maybe at one point the sheriff had thought maybe Lydia would be his daughter-in-law, reminding himself that everyone reacted the same way to the beautiful female, that the sheriff reacted that way to a lot of his son's friends.

Besides, Derek was the one Stilinski still called “son” at times, even if his scent did take on a sad edge a second or two after when he noticed his slip.

Stilinski turned fully to the petite newcomer, relaxing his arms slightly, conscious of being polite and easier with the fairer sex, especially one who had a talent for predicting one's death. Derek still had nightmares about Lydia showing up at his loft and screaming for his death or staring at him with dead eyes as she delivered the news that his ex hadn't just left Beacon Hills, but the planet as a whole.

He shuddered against that reminder, earning a curious look from Parrish that he ignored. He was ignoring a lot of his partner's glances that night.

“I'm afraid you're a little late,” the sheriff told Lydia softly, pointing to the house behind him with a thumb. “We already found the bodies.”

Lydia shook her head vehemently, full lips pressed together in a hard line. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears and Derek recognized the look in them. She knew something about a death somewhere and was hating the cold feeling she got from it, the way her body and mind were out of her control as she felt the pull towards another horrific crime scene. Chances were if Sean hadn't made it to BH Memorial and told the attending nurses there about his family, she would've found it all on her own.

“No,” she whispered, voice harsher and huskier than when Derek had first met her, years of screaming having taken its toll on her vocal cords. “There's something else here. I just know it.” She gave the sheriff an imploring look, her volume never raising, begging him with a look to just believe her.

Stilinski let out a long, heavy sigh, shoulders slumping in fatigue and defeat. “All right,” he caved without much cajoling, clearly too tired to argue that it was against protocol and she was a civilian and not authorized to investigate or go within the boundaries of a crime scene. He turned to his deputies, stiffening his posture once again, Sheriff Mode back to “on”. “Parrish, you go with her, make sure nothing is disturbed and report back to me as soon as you two find something.”

Parrish nodded, face all business but scent giving away his excitement at being alone—more or less—with the woman he was gaining feelings for. He gently placed a hand on Lydia's back and led her to the house, soon moving it so she could hold onto it as she stepped across the uneven lawn in her heels. Ever the gentleman.

“Hale,” the sheriff continued, drawing the other deputy's attention. “I want you to go back in there, see if you can sniff anything else out, maybe find something CSU missed. They should be done canvasing by now.”

Derek nodded and headed off after his partner, listening as Stilinski put Boyd back on crowd control and growled in his own way at Haigh informing him that the press wanted a statement. Hale didn't envy the sheriff in that aspect of the job. He hadn't ever been much of a public speaker himself, and over the past couple years, he'd become more and more anti-social, to the point where several of his co-workers had pointed out that his resting face looked like a serial killer's. The sheriff had politely stated that he wouldn't be using Derek for any press conferences or public statements, even if it was to just stand in the background, unless it was a super serious case and he needed some muscle and severity to point out just how much the sheriff's department wasn't fucking around with things.

The Werewolf had a feeling that would be happening soon enough when they made the connection between all these murders. It was just a matter of time.

Smearing a hand over his face, he entered the Wolcott house, nose assaulted with the scents of blood and death, latex and chemicals, powder for finger-printing and the sterile scent of the stretchers. The bodies were gone, but the place still had an eerie aura about it, making his hackles rise and his wolf pace about.

But beyond all that, were the unmistakable scents of the Wolcott home itself: of family and togetherness, their own unique smell that accompanied each of them and their house, the dinner they'd eaten together earlier that evening. He could smell wrapping paper and tape from recently purchased presents, the cinnamon and gingerbread scents of candles they'd burned, the pine from their tree and the ozone and electricity of the lights decorating it.

He focused on that the most, staring at the nine-foot Douglas fir, ignoring his distorted reflection in the golden balls. He didn't have any decorations in his loft, no tree, no wreaths, no bows. The only presents he'd purchased were a couple mall gift cards he'd mailed to his sisters and cousin Malia—despite still living in the same town as them—Home Depot one for his dad, one for Parrish for Bass Pro Shops, a restaurant one for Boyd and his fiancée Erica, and a bottle of Rem Oil the sheriff had mentioned he'd been running low on. He'd only wrapped the sheriff's gift and even then it was in a discarded page of newspaper he'd grabbed out the station's break room.

He hadn't bothered getting his mom anything. Hard to wanna get something for someone you were still pissed at three years later.

Shaking his head, he snapped himself out of his revery and focused on work. That stupid holiday and the reminders it brought had taken enough of his time that evening. He had a job to do and he'd be damned if he let anything deter him from it, including Christmas, its Eve, and the then-eighteen-year-old who'd bailed on him during their first time having sex.

Happy fucking holidays.

“A game locker?” the sheriff double-checked, sounding as dubious as ever.

After an hour of sniffing out the residence and finding nothing new, Derek had reconvened with his boss and his partner in the family room of the Wolcott house, discussing what they'd found—or hadn't found, in Derek's case. The three of them stood together and if anyone noticed that the Werewolf had moved so he was purposely standing with his back to the giant Christmas tree, then they didn't say so. They also didn't mention the glare he'd given the mistletoe hanging from the large archway between the den and the kitchen, but more than likely, they figured he was more put off by the fact that the plant could be used for more heinous purposes against Supes.

Parrish nodded, green eyes flicking over to check on Lydia as she stood in the corner with Boyd, clasping a paper cup of tea between her hands that Haigh had been sent to fetch. Derek hoped it was something calming and not just warming, noting the slight tremble in her petite frame and the despair and disgust tainting her usually flowery scent.

“Yeah,” the other deputy spoke up, pausing to lick his lips. “Like the kind hunters use to string up deer or other large game in order to preserve it before they carve into it and turn it into food.”

“But it wasn't deer,” the sheriff repeated Parrish's earlier words as they went back over his and Lydia's discovery. “There were humans inside those bags?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice and tone were flat, but his scent still carried the shock and repulsion he'd felt upon finding that particular scene. He'd obviously been affected more than he was letting on, yet his military and police training were both allowing him to keep a good poker face going and remain professional in regards to his job. Pretty damn respectable.

Derek shifted his gaze to the still open panel of wainscoting on the far wall, the dark hallway that was revealed, one he'd traveled down himself. According to Parrish, Lydia had walked over to it as though in a trance and just pushed on the wood paneling, revealing a secret door and a passageway that led to the previously mentioned game locker, which was essentially a giant fridge. CSU had been called back in and were documenting the scene, cataloging the butchers tools on the table to the side, photographing the hanging body bags. Another team was in the kitchen bagging up kitchen implements, meat tenderizers and grinders. The knives had been taken earlier for testing to see if any of them were the murder weapon, but Derek had a feeling they'd all show up clean.

Well, clean of Wolcott blood at least.

Stilinski nodded his head, eyes distant as he took the whole thing in, analyzing every detail, not needing to say what they were all thinking: their case had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. But on the plus, a possible motive had been discovered.

Silver lining, Derek figured.

Folding his arms, the sheriff narrowed his eyes in focus, bottom teeth on display once more. “So our perps are human, but our vics aren't?” he half-stated, half-questioned, turning more towards Derek for confirmation.

The Werewolf shrugged a shoulder, feeling like it was as good an answer as any. “Certainly seems that way,” he agreed, noting in the back of his mind how his gut was appearing more right about the cases all being connected.

More nodding from his boss, brow furrowing in thought. “Okay,” he drawled. “But what Supe keeps a game locker full of human bodies to serve up for dinner every night?”

Derek glanced back and forth between the two human males, taking in their similar grimaces and their matching scents of revulsion and fear. His own mind was drawing a blank at the moment, too full of other bullshit in order to properly sift through the endless list of Supes he knew of, rendering him unable to answer his boss.

“I could call my sister,” he suggested, out of any other options. “I'm sure she'd know. And if not, she works in the SRB's Research and History Department and could easily find out.”

Stilinski nodded even more, lips twisting to the side, considering it. The ME stepped into the room and the sheriff gestured for him to hold on for a moment before returning his attention to his two deputies. “Hale, you call your sister, figure out what exactly we're dealing with here,” he ordered, hand pointing towards the mentioned male before shifting to the other. “Parrish, I want you to take Lydia home, make sure she's alright and that we aren't gonna find any more bodies tonight. I've already got a deputy sitting with Sean at the hospital in case he wakes up and says anything, but I want someone watching him 'round the clock in case the killers find him and decide to finish the job.”

“I'll arrange a schedule, sir,” Parrish volunteered, ever the sheriff's pet. Not that Derek was gonna stop him. Really just meant the Werewolf wouldn't have to do it, saving him a task.

The sheriff gave him an appreciative smile and a pat on the shoulder for it before ordering them to go about their duties then head home. With nods of acknowledgment from both deputies, the group split up and headed their separate ways, Parrish telling Derek to use the department SUV they'd been given before they exchanged goodbyes. With a final wave, the Werewolf headed down the front hall and out the door, glad to be getting some fresh air and to clear his nose.

The wintry air pricked at his skin as he stepped outside, his breath clouding in front of his face with every exhale as he made his way to the SUV parked at the edge of a lawn across the street. The crowd had thinned even more, the late hour and the low temperature driving more folks inside. But the media was still there, immediately jumping Derek for details the second he slipped under the crime scene tape barricade. He shook his head at all their questions, giving a gruff “no comment” while making his way past them and into his assigned vehicle.

The SUV was just as chilly as the game locker had been and Derek had to shove aside the comparison, refusing to let his mind rest on those images. He was gonna be haunted enough by the scene, by the bodies strung up by hooks through their ankles, the lifeless expressions on all those faces, the overwhelming scent of death and ice.

A shudder raced through him and he quickly switched the ignition on, blasting the heat despite the engine not being warm enough. He slipped his phone out the pocket of his slacks, dialing up his sister's number by heart, preparing himself for the ass-chewing he was about to receive.

It took about three rings—which was typical of Laura to make someone wait if she was pissed at them for calling—but she finally answered, growling a gruff “are you aware of what time it is, baby bro?” as a greeting.

Derek narrowed his eyes at the nickname, glaring through the windshield at an imagined version of his older sister. She only had about two years of age on him, yet constantly insisted on treating him like he was five. At least when it came to that annoying ass moniker. The only time she used it was when she was purposely trying to tick him off, which was clearly her goal here. Revenge for being woken up so early.

“It's nearly five am,” he informed her, knowing damn well she didn't actually want an answer, just like he knew it would tick her off that he did it. “But I need your help.”

A loud, aggravated groan sounded out down the line, followed by the shuffle of bedsheets and a male letting out a similar—if not more quieter and less animalistic—noise to Laura. Her Mate, Chris Argent. A part of Derek felt a small sense of satisfaction at having disturbed the human male, never really having one-hundred percent approved of their union. Nothing against the guy, Derek was sure he was a great man otherwise his sister wouldn't have Mated him. But it was hard to be okay with your Werewolf sister marrying a guy who was part of a family who were notoriously anti-Supe. And yeah, he turned his back on his family, but it took his wife's death caused by a rogue Werewolf and his daughter dating a Bitten Were to make him see the light on how fucked up his relations really were. If he was such a great guy, wouldn't he have noticed that sooner?

Whatever.

“And this couldn't have waited until the morning?” Laura grumbled down the line, reminding him that he was still on the phone with her.

“'Fraid not,” he replied, having the decency to sound at least halfway remorseful. “It's for work.”

A long-suffering sigh came from his sister, followed by the shuffle of more fabric and the creak of a mattress. She murmured to her Mate that she'd be right back before shuffling out the room, closing the door behind herself. “This better be important,” she warned, slight hint of a growl in her words.

Derek glanced out the driver's side window at the house across the street, at the ambulances that had returned to pick up more dead bodies, at the news crews still parked outside hoping for a good shot, at the morbid curiosity drifting off neighbors and random denizens who'd decided to try and get a peek themselves. “Yeah, it is.”

He heard the sounds of her creaky stairs, the squeak of another door, the squeal of a drawer being open then shut, the flop of her sinking into a chair. “Alright, what's up?”

The deputy turned away from the scene across the road, reaching over to cut down the heat, shuffling about himself as he attempted to get his windbreaker off one-handed. “What kind of Supe eats people?”

There was a pause before Laura scoffed down the line in disbelief. “Uh. All of them. Genius.”

Tossing his windbreaker into the backseat, Derek suppressed an annoyed growl. He was far too tired and far too agitated for his sister's sarcasm and snark, but unfortunately for him, it seemed to be a Hale family trait. If he wanted her help, he was gonna have to just suck up and deal with it. But her being sarcastic and vaguely insulting was better than the alternative: calling his mom.

“I meant,” he began then paused, gripping the top of the steering wheel, thumb rubbing along the seam in the leather. His mind flashed back to the game locker room, the strung up bodies, the butchers equipment, the meat scales and grinders and tenderizers. “These people had humans strung up like meat, with cleavers and hacksaws. They don't just eat humans out of blood-lust or some fucked up animal instinct. It's like they carved them up into steaks and chops, ate them for meals.”

A few creative swears left his sister in a rush of breath and he could perfectly picture her smearing a hand over her face the same way he did. “And you're, what? Gonna arrest these people?”

Derek grimaced, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, knowing he was toeing a fine line. It was still an ongoing investigation, meaning he couldn't discuss it with civilians or give any details for fear they'd be leaked to the media and their entire case would be blown. But he needed the info she could possibly provide, needed to know who these victims were in case it was motive for their murders. Besides, she worked for the government, knew exactly how sensitive cases could be and knew when to keep her mouth shut about the more confidential aspects of them.

Still, he wasn't about to compromise anything or get in trouble with his boss. He was already crossing a line seeking her help.

With a sigh, he sank down into his seat, knee knocking the bottom of the steering wheel. “Can't say,” he settled on, scratching his jaw. “Just know that it's part of an ongoing investigation.”

Laura made a non-committal noise, but the sounds of a pencil on paper meant she was jotting it down so she could research it for him. He felt his entire body relax, muscles loosening up as they released the tension he wasn't aware they'd been holding. He'd been so afraid she'd say no, tell him to go fuck himself, remind him that he had access to the family library just as much as she did and that Google was a thing that existed, so his lazy ass could look it up himself. Yet she hadn't.

He sometimes forgot just how much he loved and appreciated his sister.

“It sounds familiar, but I'll look it up later just to make sure,” she stated as the scribbling slowed to a stop. “That being said, you could always call Mom. I'm sure she'd know it off the top of her head.”

That had Derek's body tightening up once again, eyes flashing gold inside the dark SUV, grip on the steering wheel tightening so much he heard the leather creak and the metal groan. A low rumble could be heard over the engine and it took him a moment to realize he was growling, anger washing out his awareness of everything else.

“Or not,” Laura sighed and he could practically feel the eye roll that always accompanied his reactions to her suggestion that he actually speak to their mother. “Seriously, Der, don't you think it's time you got over this grudge?”

He snorted, entire body rocking with the noise, cutting his growls off. “How 'bout you wait 'til Mom helps Argent disappear off the face of this planet and then see if you still want me to talk to her?”

His sister didn't say a word, probably couldn't really, most likely knew he'd made a damn good point. All Derek could hear were the scratches of her pencil as she idly drew something on her paper, the smack of her lips as she licked them, the gulp she made as she swallowed.

“It's been three years, Der,” she pointed out softly, voice barely a whisper, yet Derek still felt the blow of her words, eyes closing against the impact. She no longer argued that it was an unfair comparison, no longer tried to belittle his feelings for his ex or the nature of their relationship. He wasn't sure if it was because she realized that that wasn't gonna help her get her way or if she'd accepted that maybe Derek was actually right when he said he believed his ex was his Mate. Probably the first, knowing her. But whatever the reason, she'd now shifted tactics to pointing out the time that had passed—not that she really needed to—and her belief that Derek needed to just get over it and move on.

No matter what, it still hurt like a splintered spear of mountain ash being stabbed through his chest every time she said it.

“I'm aware,” he grit out through clenched teeth, cutting the heat back up to get rid of the chill that seemed to have seeped into every inch of his being, straight through to his core. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and covered them with his hand, keeping his phone to his ear. “Just like I'm aware that it's been a long fucking night and I'm tired and I really don't wanna talk about this or talk to Mom or any of that shit.” His voice was rough and he was speaking around a lump in his throat, but he didn't care. He wanted her to hear it, wanted her to know that he was just done with everyone's bullshit and really, truly was not talking about this.

“Fine,” she sighed again, the sound of a pencil being laid against the pad barely audible down the line. “I'm gonna get some sleep. I suggest you do the same, Grumpy Wolf.” She hung up before he could respond, meaning he was more than likely gonna hear about his shit attitude the next time they spoke.

Derek locked his phone and dropped it into the cup holder on the console, all without opening his eyes or dropping his other hand from his face. It was his shield, his guard, his useless armor against memories that came rushing in anyway, a cheery yet aggravated voice haunting him from years gone by.

“No, I will not stop taking selfies of us, so just deal and smile, Sour Wolf.”

Fuck, he hated Christmas.

Chapter Text

Derek was never sure if he liked dreams like these, dreams that actually weren't dreams, but memories of happier times. On the one hand, he was reliving some of the greatest moments of his life. On the other, it was a painful reminder of what he no longer had and he always woke up feeling cold and hollow.

But at the moment, he was loving it.

Because at that moment, he was fully sheathed inside his Mate, cock buried to the root, gasping against sweat soaked skin. His thrusts had gradually picked up steam, getting faster, longer, harder, as the lean frame beneath him began begging for more, for all of it, for “please, Der, god, fuck, don't stop.”

He braced his forearms on either side of his Mate's head, dragged his bottom lip along the shell of his ear, relishing the shiver it earned him in response. Because his Mate was nothing if not responsive, always vocal, always shuddering, always telling in some way, shape, or form what he liked and what he didn't. Even if he, by some miracle, didn't actually say anything, Derek would still know. It was the slightest tremble in his muscles, the tick in his lips, the blip in his heart beat, the way his scent grew stronger, spicier, that little hint of something extra that made Derek and his wolf both lose their mind.

And now? Now he was further losing it as he drove himself deeper into his Mate. The leaner male's hands had disappeared under the pillows at some point, gripping at the edge of the mattress as his arms jerked uncontrollably. His head was bowed down, hips bucking up to keep Derek inside, to bring them together once again.

The Werewolf pressed himself along his Mate's back, grinding down into him, feeling a pulse around the base of his cock. His knot. He gasped out against a slender neck, eyes closing tight, nose nuzzling into buzzed hair. He breathed out a swear, his Mate's name, his hand drifting down to grip his hip in a bruising hold.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Wanna knot you so bad. Wanna fill you up with my come and keep you full, hold it inside you with my cock as I tie us together.”

His Mate moaned louder than ever, Derek's name a swear and a praise all in one as his hips ground his own cock into the mattress. His hand shot out from under the pillow, immediately slipping under his body, presumably to wrap around his dick. His entire frame was trembling beneath Derek, inhaling harshly on a gasp and holding it in as every muscle in his body tensed up and his scent shifted to something more...

A loud obnoxious tone woke Derek up with a start, eyes shooting open as his entire body jerked. It took him a moment to figure out the sound had come from his phone, that it was alerting him to a new text, and that while normally he'd be cursing the thing in new and creative ways for waking him up during a damn good dream, he was actually glad for it. It woke him up right before shit had hit the fan and things had taken a turn for the absolute worse.

Sitting up, Derek shoved a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the hollow ache in his chest and the empty side of his bed. Waking up was always the worst part of his day, was always the time when he felt most vulnerable and prone to loneliness. His mind was still groggy and unable to form those protective barriers he'd grown to rely on, leaving him exposed to haunting thoughts and realizations that he'd later be able to ignore.

His bed was empty.

His Mate was gone, no longer in town, off to someplace unknown.

His Mate didn't wanna be found, not by Derek or anyone else.

And it had been nearly three years.

“I'm sorry, Der, but this is for the best. Don't look for me.”

God, he felt empty.

The Werewolf let his hands fall to his sheet covered lap, gray-green eyes halfway focused on the end of the bed, where the comforter that had been folded up neatly there at the beginning of the night had been kicked off onto the floor. He didn't really need the comforter. He'd only bought it for one reason, one person. And despite said person not having been around for three years, Derek couldn't bear to get rid of it.

Wishful thinking, he supposed.

Yet the comforter stayed there.

With heavy limbs, he got out of bed, flipping the sheet over the mattress before padding over on the hardwood floors in his bare feet. He set the comforter back where it had been, smoothing the dark blue fabric, sweeping off any dust or debris that had gotten on it when it had fallen. He really should get rid of it. It was completely useless, served only as a reminder of bundling up a chilly human on the couch during movie nights or the time it had been laid out over the back of the couch and the coffee table as a terrible excuse for a blanket fort—his words, not Derek's—before he'd sucked his boyfriend off for the first time, getting a sloppy yet enthusiastic hand job in return.

The memories only further compounded the ache he was feeling in his chest, spreading it to his limbs. He looked down at his bare arms, the appendages feeling heavier than usual, sore down to the marrow in an inexplicable way. It was the same thing every morning, was why he hated waking up. Separation Sickness. He'd researched it a month or so after his Mate had left, needing to know what the hell was wrong, but unable to bring himself to ask his mom about it. So he'd checked countless sites online, all of them pointing to Separation Sickness. And the symptoms fit what he was experiencing: the crippling depression, the agitated wolf, the aching limbs and hollow chest, the inability to feel joy or happiness, the refusal to even be around one's pack. Add in the fact that his Mate was gone and it was clear that that was what he was suffering from.

He'd told Laura about it but she'd rolled her eyes and said he was probably overreacting and that researching your own illness online was a stupid idea, that people often ended up diagnosing themselves with some life-ending incurable disease when it was simply a common cold. She suggested he see an actual doctor to get an actual diagnosis of it, but he refused. Having it confirmed by a medical professional made it too real, made it one-hundred percent certain that his Mate was gone and not coming back. Sometimes Derek's denial was his only coping mechanism and his only way to handle his illness. Wasn't like he could be cured from it, since the only options there were to be with his Mate or to kill himself.

Although some days, the latter option was tempting.

He was gonna have to make sure he left his service weapon at the station on Christmas Eve, just to be safe.

His phone chirped again, reminding him of the text he'd yet to check. He left the comforter alone before padding over, snatching the device up from where it sat on his nightstand and unlocking it to see a message from Laura.

emailed u info u wanted. sounds like ur dealin with wendigos. ur welcome asshole. ps call mom

He grunted at the addition to her message before sending a prompt thanks and closing out the line of messages. A quick check of the time told him he had a couple hours before he needed to head to work and he soon came up with a plan on how to kill it. If there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that downtime wasn't his friend. No, what was best for him was to be busy and active, to not let his brain rest or drift off, otherwise it'll drift off to places he didn't want it to go.

He couldn't cure his sickness, but he could treat it with denial and distractions. Starting with breakfast and reading up on Wendigos.

The rest of his morning—or more technically afternoon—was spent working out and running errands, glaring at anyone who wished him a merry Christmas or a happy holidays or any other shitty sentiment along those lines. He printed out the research Laura had sent him, recognizing some of the pages as having been scanned directly from Hale family tomes and the Argents' own bestiary. His lip curled at that, but he had to admit, the former Hunters were thorough and knew a whole lot about a whole lot.

Parrish lived in the same building, just a few floors down, so the two carpooled to the sheriff's station as usual. Derek filled his partner in on what his sister had found and Parrish shared that Lydia had slept soundly throughout the night with no screaming, but had woken up with disturbed look on her face. The Werewolf cocked a curious eyebrow at the first half of his story, only to lower it and smirk slightly at the last part.

“Maybe she was freaked out by your ugly mug first thing in the morning,” he joked, getting a punch in the shoulder and a “screw you” in response. But the grin on Parrish's face meant he hadn't taken it to heart and wasn't offended. Although given the way Lydia's scent was still clinging to Parrish's skin despite an obvious shower, Derek figured nothing was gonna get the guy down. Getting laid would do that.

Parrish clarified that it wasn't like that between them, that they'd spent the night actually sleeping, his heartbeat remaining steady as he spoke the truth. Derek nodded as he took his partner's word, knowing full well the joy of just being able to hold the one you loved all night.

Just sucked he hadn't been able to do it for so long, his heart clenching in loneliness, want, and a slight hint of jealousy.

The sheriff was on the phone when the partners arrived for work, so Derek busied himself with paperwork while waiting for his chance to speak with his boss. Parrish spent his time arguing with Haigh over the guard duty for Sean Wolcott, Boyd having to step in and use his size to get the argumentative deputy to back down. There might've been a flash of golden eyes in there for good measure, something that in turn caused Haigh's scent to turn bitter and disgusted. Derek glared at the other deputy with his own glowing eyes as the human made his way back to his own desk in the bullpen, wordlessly stating he wasn't gonna take the guys species-ism. Anti-Supes were the worst kind of people.

It was the third proofreading of his fifth report when his opportunity to talk to the sheriff finally came. He waited a couple minutes to make sure Stilinski really was free and to also not make it totally obvious that he'd been halfway spying on him through the wall of windows separating the office and the bullpen and waiting on his chance. Gathering the manila folder of print-outs, he headed to the sheriff's office, waving to Parrish as he left for guard duty at the hospital.

He knocked on the door and opened it a crack, sticking his head in as he let out a curious “sheriff?”, double-checking it was safe to enter. Although at that point it was hard to tell.

Stilinski was in his seat, chin in his hand, seemingly zoned out as he stared at something on his desk. To anyone else, it would've appeared like the same distant look the sheriff gained whenever he was thinking about something, but Derek knew better. He could recognize the tightness in his eyes and the slight liquidy look to them as he stubbornly refused to let the tears fully form. He could smell the salty sadness and sharp scent of loss all around him, to the point where it was almost tangible, to where it was a taste dancing on his tongue. And he knew without having to look, that Stilinski's eyes weren't staring off into space, but were focused on a particular framed photograph sitting on the left side of his desk. It was a photo of his son Stiles, grinning wide and dopey at the camera, hanging a wreath on the front grill of his powder blue Jeep. It was also the last photo anyone had captured of Stiles before he'd taken off to parts unknown without any explanation why.

“Don't look for me.”

It was an order, not just one made to a Mate with the knowledge that it would be followed solely due to basic instincts that made any Were-creature follow through on their Mate's wishes, no matter how ridiculous. But it was also one a son made to his father with the addition that he'd keep in contact, but if the sheriff tracked him down and brought him back home, Stiles would leave again and never keep in touch. So Stilinski kept his end of the bargain, knowing his son was eighteen and he legally couldn't force him to stay in Beacon Hills, not without bringing kidnapping charges upon himself. And Stiles kept to his word, weekly emails that gave no details of where he was or why he'd left, an occasional Skype chat to prove that it was him typing those messages and that he truly was alive and okay.

Derek had pointed out that all those could be traced, that Stiles had a hacker buddy named Danny who could do it and it would never get back to them. But the sheriff had simply shook his head, resignation on his face, in his body language, flooding his scent.

“If you love something, son, you gotta let it go and just hope like hell your kid learned something from you other than how to evade the cops or pick a lock.”

The sheriff seemed to snap out of his daze, inhaling suddenly before snapping his head to the door. His eyes focused more on the present, spine stiffening as he sat up straighter, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Hale. Yeah. C'min,” he muttered gruffly, gesturing his deputy into the office with his hand.

Derek nodded once before slipping inside, closing the door behind himself and soundproofing the office.. He crossed the space in three strides, sinking down into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, still gripping the manila folder as he watched his boss shift his gaze to another framed picture, this one a family portrait when Stiles was seven, before his mom got sick and the Stilinski family was forever altered.

“You heard from him, didn't you?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer. The sheriff wasn't really one for being wistful or nostalgic, not without a reason. Three days before Christmas wasn't really a day for tripping down Memory Lane, not with the same sort of sadness and longing flooding his scent.

Stilinski nodded, chin propped in his hand again, elbow on the desk, sad sigh exhaling through his nose. “Yeah,” he breathed out roughly, dropping his hand with a slap against the wood. “He's not coming home for Christmas. Again.” A sardonic laugh choked its way out as he switched his line of sight to his deputy. “Not that I was expecting any different or even bothered asking. Most days I'm just completely resigned to the fact that he's never coming home. Ever.” He wrapped it up with a shrug and a shake of the head, a wordless “what can you do?” motion that spoke more than words.

Derek nodded himself, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes shifting over to the back of the first frame Stilinski had been staring at. He couldn't actually see the photo from his angle, but he could still perfectly picture it in his mind. Because he'd been the one who'd taken it before sending it to the sheriff's phone upon request, before Stiles had taken over then and taught his dad how to email it to himself then print it off and “seriously, Pops, this isn't rocket science, you can quit with the confused constipated look.”

“I'm sorry,” the Werewolf muttered for lack of anything better to say, yet needing to say it. Because he was. He was sorry the sheriff had lost his only son, had lost the one remaining part of his family, had lost seemingly everything.

The sheriff just shrugged again. “Not your fault, son,” he commented, lips curved up on one corner in a sad, twisted version of a smile. His scent remained the same, if not maybe even becoming more pleasant, seeming okay—for once—with the moniker he'd just referred to his deputy as.

Knees on his elbows, Derek hung his head, unable to look at his boss, at the man who might've one day been his father-in-law. It was his fault; he knew it deep down inside. Stiles might not have given either of them any reason or explanation for leaving so suddenly, but the Werewolf had a damn good idea that he was the cause. A guy doesn't flip out in the middle of sex then completely leave town without it being his partner's fault.

But it wasn't like he could say any of that. “Actually, Sheriff, that's where you're wrong. See, I tried to knot your son and he had a massive meltdown and a near panic attack, screaming about how wrong it was and how there wasn't supposed to be a knot, and then he ran out and left town, never to return.”

He wouldn't just lose his job for that shit; he'd probably lose his life. The sheriff didn't carry a gun full of wolfsbane ammo just for decoration.

Okay, yes, the sheriff was aware of the nature of Derek's relationship with his son and was most likely tuned in to the fact that their sleepovers weren't exactly PG. But there was a line between having a pretty good idea that something was happening and knowing the full details of what exactly was going on and sharing that nugget of info with the older man was not just crossing it, but shooting oneself out of a cannon over it.

That was more his ex's MO than Derek's.

So no, Derek wasn't gonna correct him on that, despite the overwhelming guilt that threatened to crush him under its weight. It was probably mean and rude to let the older male continue to wonder what was so major that it caused his only child to run away, but the Werewolf figured it was better than knowing the truth: that his son had freaked out over his boyfriend actually being a Werewolf and all the not-so-normal body parts that came with it.

Real blow to a guy's ego, but better Derek deal with the pain of his Mate hating his nature than his Mate's dad dealing with way too personal details of his son's sex life.

“Anyway,” the sheriff heaved, rubbing his hand over his graying hair before gesturing to his deputy. “I assume you have something in that folder for me.”

Derek snapped back into work-mode, sitting up straight in his seat and holding the manila folder out to his boss. “It's research Laura sent me from the SRB's files, the Hale family histories, and the Argent Bestiary indicating that the Wolcotts were most likely Wendigos.”

The sheriff paused where he'd flipped the folder open, staring at the younger man with his brow furrowed and his bottom teeth showing, disbelief coloring his scent in an almost overwhelming manner. “Wendigos,” he repeated dubiously, getting a nod in response.

“They're apparently from Native American origins,” the deputy began, recalling info he'd read over earlier that day while eating breakfast, the facts sparking memories of an overly enthused then-teenaged boy rambling about how awesome the word “Wendigo” was and “seriously, Der, just say it. Wendigo. Weeeeendigo. Wendigo. Wendigo. Wendigooooooo!”

“They're cannibalistic shape-shifters known for having two rows of sharp, shark-like teeth and a voracious appetite for human flesh,” he summed up, keeping his voice level and professional, trying to hide how despicable he actually found that. Wendigos were some of the reasons why the SRB was needed and why anti-Supes continuously argued that Supes were monsters who needed to be kept in cages—if not put down.

Both the sheriff's eyebrows raised at that before he bobbed them in a dismissive manner as he see-sawed his head. “Sounds like it fits the Wolcotts,” he reasoned, flapping the folder closed and putting it down on his desk. “I really don't need the gory details of what exactly they are or how they eat, but I think we'd better get down to the hospital to make sure Sean isn't turning some poor orderly into his lunch.”

The two men both rose to their feet as the sheriff's desk phone rang and Derek's cell pinged with a new text. He tuned out his hearing in a well-practiced manner so as not to eavesdrop on the phone conversation, only listening to the gruff “Stilinski” with which the older male used to answer. Instead, he focused on taking his cell out the pocket of his slacks and checking the message he'd just received.

From Lydia.

A cold sense of dread washed over him, hackles rising as he read her words over and over, making sure he wasn't seeing anything that wasn't actually there.

I just drove to the hospital with no knowledge of doing so and I have a terrible feeling and you should come here NOW.

His gray-green eyes flipped up to the sheriff as the human hung up the phone with a loud crack. “That was the hospital,” Stilinski stated, scent shifting to something dark and remorseful, as well as sad and defeated.

“Sean's dead,” Derek completed for him, already having had that feeling when he'd read Lydia's text.

The sheriff nodded absently before rounding his desk, back in Sheriff Mode, striding purposefully over to his coat rack. “We need to get there. Now.”

Lydia was pacing back and forth outside the main entrance of Beacon Hills Memorial when the sheriff and Derek pulled up. Stilinski parked the SUV in the fire lane, knowing the gold block letters spelling “SHERIFF” running along the side of the vehicle would save it from being towed or ticketed, before killing the lights and siren. The deputy was out the car before the engine was cut off, striding over to the petite Banshee as she finally pulled to a stop herself.

The wide-eyed look from the previous night was still there, lips pressed together in a hard line, green orbs glassy and watery. But she'd managed to get dressed before her subconscious had driven her to the hospital, which was more than the night before, so she was definitely doing better.

Granted her outfit still wasn't weather appropriate, considering the mini-skirt that was covered by her wool trench, but Derek could make out the woven threads of a pair of nude nylons covering her legs.

“I don't know how I got here or why,” she stated shakily as Derek stopped in front of her, her arms clutching tightly at her midsection, head shaking absently. Her body was trembling slightly, hair having fallen out of the braids she had wrapped around her head like a crown, cheeks rosy from the cold.. “I know it has to do with that boy from last night though.”

The Werewolf nodded, brow in a hard line, face in full business-mode. “Yeah, the hospital already called and told Stilinski about it.”

As if on cue, the driver's side door shut and the sheriff rounded the engine, striding over to the twosome standing near the front entrance. The anxiety in Lydia's scent ratcheted up tenfold as she watched the older man draw near, although Derek knew it had nothing to do with Stilinski himself. The human treated Lydia the same way every other male in her life seemed to: like she was made of porcelain. Her wide eyes and full lips coupled with her fair skin and tiny frame created a doll-like appearance, leading everyone to treat her as such. But when she opened her mouth, she was quick witted with a sharp tongue that could leave the deepest marks on anyone she so chose. Granted her sharp edges had dulled down over the years, making her softer to those she cared about. Yet if anyone were to cross her in any way, God help them.

Lydia's Bambi eyes slid from the sheriff to Derek, curiosity as evident in them as it was in her scent, voice a harsh whisper as she spoke. “Where's Jordan?”

The deputy's brow furrowed before it relaxed, realizing her anxiety was most likely caused by the fact that his usual partner hadn't arrived with him and chances were she was worried over his whereabouts. “Inside on guard duty,” he responded, pointing towards the front door with a thumb over his shoulder.

The anxiety and curiosity gave way to anger, her jaw working as she glared. “He's in the hospital and he didn't respond to my text saying I was outside?” she seethed.

Derek had a sudden burst of concern over his partner's well-being, too. Lydia was gonna use his flesh to do her nails.

If something else hadn't already happened to him, a cheery voice piped up from within.

Which really, was the only explanation for why Parrish wouldn't respond to a text from the girl he was into, why he wasn't outside with Lydia calming her down, why something had happened to Sean Wolcott. Parrish wasn't one to shy away from his duties, wouldn't have just given in and let someone harm the boy—Wendigo or not—not without putting up one hell of a fight.

Someone must've put Parrish outta commission before doing the same to Wolcott.

Hopefully his partner's state wasn't as permanent.

The Werewolf opened his mouth to speak, but never got a word out. The entrance doors slid open and a familiar curly head jogged out, desperation and anxiety rolling off her in waves.

“John!” Nurse McCall cried out for the sheriff's attention as she hurried over, hand holding her stethoscope to her chest so it didn't fly about. “You need to come here. Quick.” She glanced at the other two members of their small party, worry in dark eyes, before turning and quickly heading back inside.

The sheriff was quick to follow the woman he considered a friend, Derek on his heels, Lydia bringing up the rear. The Werewolf was overwhelmed by the scents of disinfectants and blood, of worry and panic, of pain and despair, almost feeling relieved when they entered the elevator and the doors closed behind them. Only to inhale even more of the same anxiety mixture from the three humans he shared a cart with. It was inescapable and as much as he tried to think of the best and not let his imagination get away from him, his own concern over his partner was ratcheting up.

Nurse McCall was busy murmuring to the sheriff, disbelief coloring her words as she breathed out how she'd never seen anything like what she'd just found—which was really saying something considering her son was a Werewolf who'd gained that status after being attacked by a rogue Alpha. Stilinski was nodding, showing he was listening, blue eyes distant as he stared straight ahead and unclasped the strap over his gun holster by feel alone.

Lydia was the worst of all of them, trembling on Derek's right, her panicked scent the strongest smell in the small area. Even when she was completely falling apart inside, she refused to show any weakness. Her lips were pressed together tight to hide the wobble, her arms were wrapped around her midsection to keep herself together, her eyes were closed to hold back the tears. But Derek knew better, knew she was losing her cool, losing her composure, all because of the unknown that awaited them on the fourth floor, all because she had no idea if the guy she had feelings for was all right.

It was a sensation Derek was all too familiar with, mind flashing through memories of showing up at this very hospital not knowing if the one he loved was okay or dead, only hearing the words “Stiles was in an accident” before he'd hung up and raced off. Fortunately he turned out to be just fine and Stilinski had told the Werewolf to cut the shit and just confess to having feelings for his son already.

They went on their first date a week after Stiles had been released from the hospital. The human had wanted it to be sooner, but Derek was determined to follow Nurse McCall's suggestions and forced Stiles to take it easy for a little while.

Point was, he'd been in Lydia's shoes and knew full well every thought that had to be racing through her mind at that moment. Except she probably had a few pluses working for her when it came to the possibility of Parrish being okay.

“He survived two tours in Afghanistan,” he quietly pointed out, leaning over slightly to get closer to her ear. He knew she'd heard him by the way her lids slid open and her eyes flicked to look at him in her peripheral vision. “He can handle this. Besides, if something really bad had happened, wouldn't you know?” He quirked an eyebrow at her in question, letting her fill in the blanks about her Banshee powers and the morbid predictions they gave her.

Lydia kept staring straight ahead, tapping her toes against the floor, lips twisting in thought. “I still have a bad feeling about all this,” she confessed lowly, voice huskier than usual.

“You and me both, kid,” Stilinski muttered from Derek's other side as the elevator stopped on their floor and dinged.

The doors slid open, both the sheriff and his deputy withdrawing their service weapons before exiting the cart. The hallway was empty, void of life, but the Werewolf could hear heartbeats and monitors, various machines and IVs doing their jobs behind the doors.

“You smell that?” the older man questioned as he visually checked out the hallway as it parted in three directions.

Derek nodded, nose crinkling at the assault on his olfactory senses. “Blood,” he commented lowly, declining to further add to the inventory of what exactly he was scenting. Gunpowder and steel, internal organs no longer where they were supposed to be, the usual overwhelming smells of emotions gone haywire. But he refused to say any of those out loud, knowing the redhead he was escorting was already near her wits end when it came to everything.

It wasn't that he doubted Lydia's internal strength, because he knew she was one of the bravest women he'd ever met, Supernatural or not, but sometimes, when things were too personal, any little thing could send someone over the edge and break them beyond repair. Being told there was the scent of carnage in the air while she was worrying over her romantic interest's well-being would be that thing.

The Banshee swallowed, gazing up at the Werewolf, eyes wide once again. “And death,” she whispered harshly, voice breaking slightly on the word.

Derek ignored the chill that raced up his spine and the way his hackles further rose, instead maneuvering her behind him with a sweep of his arm. She went willingly, clinging onto the back of his windbreaker as she followed him and the sheriff down the hall leading straight from the elevator. Her heels clacked loudly against the linoleum floor, a stark contrast to the barely there steps of Nurse McCall in her work sneakers as she rounded out their little group.

The foursome carefully made their way down the corridor, ever alert, ever vigilant. Derek focused his hearing so he could block out all the machines and monitors, listening for anything out of the ordinary, anything that would help him figure out what had happened in Wolcott's room or would stop any random attack.

The fact that they weren't jumped out of nowhere did nothing to soothe his nerves. The scents growing stronger with each step weren't helping either, the chemosignals held within driving his nose insane. Anger, rage, disgust, anxiety. A struggle of some sort had clearly taken place there, further proven by an overturned crash cart two other nurses were hurriedly cleaning up with shaky hands and rapidly pounding hearts.

Nurse McCall's own uneasy scent spiked up as they paused outside a closed door, a hospital security guard standing outside with a pale face and a nauseous look. “That's his room,” the curly haired female unnecessarily stated before exhaling slowly. Derek glanced back to see her wrap an arm around herself, the other with its fingers over her mouth. Her dark eyes glanced back and forth between the sheriff and his deputy, feet planted firmly on the ground, a clear sign she wasn't going any further.

Derek untangled Lydia from the back of his jacket and Nurse McCall immediately pulled her in close, holding her like the good mom she was known to be. The Werewolf then turned his attention to his boss, who was nodding at the guard. The security officer must've known what it meant because he stepped to the side and allowed the other two males access to the room he was protecting.

The sheriff and his deputy exchanged a few hand signals before Stilinski pushed the door open inwards, Derek stepping inside. A quick sweep with his gun showed no signs of movement, no one waiting to attack anyone who entered. Not much of a surprise actually, not when he really focused. The room was void of any heartbeats, the only sound the monitor with its never-ending tone.

Made sense considering the dead bodies on the ground.

The scents were overwhelming, Derek covering his mouth and nose with his free hand, barely able to prevent himself from inhaling it all. The coppery smell of blood, the rot of death, the tang of fear, the bitterness of a struggle, the spice of rage, the ache of hunger. It was too much for his sensitive nose and he almost bolted out the room.

But he couldn't. He had a job to do, had to find out exactly what happened and how.

Holstering his gun, he stepped further into the room, taking careful steps to avoid the newly discovered crime scene. Blood was splattered against the back wall, consisted with being shot, and he rounded the bed to reveal the source.

Sean Wolcott lay face-up on the ground, several gunshot wounds to the chest and one to the head evident. His hands were covered in blood, fingers ending in claws, and his bloodied mouth was open to reveal two rows of shark-like teeth all stained red. Laying next to him in a similar fashion was a lean male dressed in a familiar khaki and brown uniform, torso nothing but a gaping wound after he'd literally been torn into, intestines strewn about the place.

Panic had the Werewolf's heart beating faster, pounding louder in his head as he cautiously stepped closer, almost afraid of what he'd find when he was able to better see the deputy's face. His throat had been slashed open by claws, blood dripping out of his mouth past parted lips, eyes wide open and unseeing.

Blue eyes.

Not Parrish.

Relief had Derek's shoulders sagging and his breath leaving him in a rush, head nodding automatically. A quick glance at the name tag on the other deputy's uniform alerted him to his identity: Daehler. No one he knew really, more than likely a rookie who'd just started not long ago. Fresh out the academy and he's killed on what was most likely his first big assignment.

A choked off noise sounded out behind Derek and he looked back to see the sheriff turning his head away, lip curled up and nose scrunched, hand flying up to cover his mouth. A few swears and blasphemies escaped under his breath and the Werewolf couldn't help but nod in agreement.

“Someone caught Wolcott mid-meal,” the deputy stated flatly, determined to remain professional and do his job. He figured it was part of being Supernatural, to have a stronger constitution and be able to handle sights like this better than his human superior. That being said, he was sure the image of a slashed open co-worker and his chewed on innards was gonna haunt him when he went to sleep later that night.

The sheriff gagged once, then again, muttered about “fuckin' Wendigos” before sniffing loudly and turning back to his deputy. “Think it was Parrish?”

Derek shook his head as he stared down at the corpses a few feet in front of him. “Parrish wouldn't shoot the kid for that. Or at least he wouldn't aim for anywhere vital.” He lifted his head and scented the air, sorting through the smells associated with the two victims, the emotions they were feeling right before their deaths, the recently fired gun and all that came with it. “Perp was definitely human though. I can't smell anything else Supernatural in here.”

Stilinski nodded, hands on his hips as he looked around at anything but the bodies. “My guess? It was the same folks that killed the rest of his family back to finish the job.”

The Werewolf shook his head in disagreement, stepping around the bodies to get to the attached bathroom for further investigation. “Maybe someone from the same group, but not the same exact people. Scent's different.”

More muttering came from his boss as he slid his phone out his pocket and quickly dialed. Derek tuned the convo out as his boss barked down the line for a CSU team to show and walked into the en suite, not bothering to be cautious due to a lack of sounds coming from within. It was completely empty, no bodies, torn open or otherwise. And still, no Parrish.

He quickly sniffed around, finding his partner's scent. It was barely there, but enough to lead him into the dirty laundry hamper. Digging through, he tossed aside wet towels and used hospital gowns before locating the source of the scent. At the bottom of the hamper was Parrish's uniform shirt and slacks, his boots, and his belt. Derek checked the clasps on it, finding his cell, pepper spray, baton, and flashlight. Missing were his keys, cuffs, gun, and extra magazines.

Shit.

Gathering up his partner's belongings, he strode back into the main room, holding them up for Stilinski to see. The sheriff's eyebrows shot up, lips hanging open, the person on the other end of the line calling for his attention but not receiving it. Without another word, Derek dropped the items on the bed then strode out of the room and into the hallway, scenting the air more diligently than before.

Lydia was still out there, standing to the side with Nurse McCall, the older female holding the smaller, trembling one and rubbing her arm in comfort. The redhead straightened up slightly, green eyes wider than normal as they fixated on the Werewolf, watching his every move. Hope was flooding into her scent, equaled only by her worry that something was wrong with Parrish.

Which she had every right to believe that.

Derek held a hand up as she parted her lips to speak, nose in the air, inhaling deeply. And there it was, Parrish at its most pure, no emotional weight to it at all.

Not all that reassuring when he really stopped to think about it. But better than nothing.

He followed the familiar scent of his partner further down the hallway, ignoring the curious calls of his name, not stopping until he came across a metal doorway at the end. He strained his hearing, getting a whole lot of nothing on the other side, but unsheathed his claws nonetheless before throwing open the door.

A stairwell was revealed on the other side, an empty one from the sights and sounds. Still, Derek checked up and then down before following Parrish's scent as it headed towards the bottom floor. He continuously glanced around and behind himself as he descended, kept his senses sharp. There was no telling who—or what—had killed Wolcott or who—or what—had taken Parrish. They could still be in the hospital for all he knew, waiting for help to arrive, waiting for Derek or even the sheriff in order to harm them—or worse.

He made it through the stairwell and into an underground parking deck. A couple ambulances sat near an elevator with their engines dead but popping from recent use. Assigned parking spaces featured cars of various makes and models, doctors who were on call and nurses who were making their rounds. But no heartbeats, no figures moving in the shadows, no signs of life anywhere.

Derek continued to follow the scent, jogging at a brisk pace, hoping like hell they'd arrived on time to be of some help to Parrish. The more logical part of him knew he was grasping at straws, knew he was letting his hope get away from him, yet it couldn't be helped. He was refusing to allow the thought of losing someone else he was close to.

The scent trail ended at a parking space near the exit, a wheelchair on its side along the wall, discarded roughly and without much thought. A quick sniff of it alerted Derek to its previous rider, his missing partner, but no other trace of the man himself existed. All that remained were the scents of exhaust and exertion and a couple hastily removed license plates from a Sheriff Department issued SUV. Standing in the middle of the parking space, Derek looked around, stomach sinking and wolf howling as realization sunk in.

Parrish had been abducted.

Chapter Text

The troops were rallied faster than Derek had ever seen in his four years of working at the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department. Made sense though, considering half the reason they were called into action was because one of them had been abducted. The other half, of course, was the second multiple homicide in as many days.

The entire hallway had been cordoned off, the other patients transferred elsewhere in the building, giving them free reign to work without worrying over disturbing anyone. The room across from Wolcott's was designated as a command post of sorts, the sheriff coordinating everyone from within, barking orders to his deputies in a manner that left no question as to who was in charge, regardless of the badges everyone wore. Once the photos were taken of the crime scene, CSU would take over and scan the area for clues. Boyd was to scent the room and try to find anything the human members of the unit might miss while another Werewolf deputy named Isaac Lahey was to retrace Parrish's scent and where it led.

“Nothing personal, son,” the sheriff told Derek after noticing his questioning look at the command. “Just couldn't hurt to have a few noses on the trail.”

The Werewolf conceded the point, bobbing his eyebrows in a “fair enough” manner. Stilinski clapped him on the shoulder once before continuing to dole out orders, giving the Werewolf an important assignment.

His first task was to head to security and set about acquiring the tapes from the cameras outside Wolcott's room and down in the parking deck. They weren't much help, only showing a figure dressed in green scrubs heading into the boy's room, back to the camera the whole time. Parrish showed up a few moments later, and after fast-forwarding about ten minutes, the earlier scrub-clad figure emerged pushing an unconscious Parrish, now dressed in a hospital johnny, in a wheelchair, down the hall towards the stairwell Derek had descended earlier.

“How the hell did he get a guy in a wheelchair down the stairs all by himself?” the Werewolf muttered under his breath, watching the scene unfold with a scowl on his face, wolf an agitated growl in the back of his mind.

“What was that?” the guard showing him the tape questioned, making Derek realize he'd spoken out loud.

He quickly shook his head and murmured a “nothing” before requesting to see the tape from the parking deck.

That video wasn't much help either, the orderly-looking figure never showing their face there either as they hauled a limp deputy into the back of his own SUV before shoving the wheelchair to the side and slamming the door shut. The figure backed up a few steps before the vehicle reversed out the parking space and pulled off.

Derek straightened from where he'd been leaning closer to the screen, lips twisting in thought. His belief from the night before that they were looking for a team of killers came back, further solidified by the clearly waiting driver who'd highjacked a sheriff SUV. Because trying to track down one murderer wasn't hard enough.

He requested copies of both cameras, the guard throwing in extras of the parking deck's exit onto the street and the hospital's main entrances and lobby area, putting the entire day's worth of footage onto a high capacity flashdrive. Evidence in hand, he headed back upstairs to the sheriff, finding him already in a discussion with Lahey.

“—And the scent of the guy who'd taken Parrish led from that parking space across the deck to another, where it disappeared,” the deputy informed his superior, thumbs hooked on his utility belt by the front of his hips.

The sheriff frowned in confusion, holding a hand up at Derek to signal him to wait a moment as the Werewolf drew to a stop on his left. “So he wasn't the one who drove off with Parrish in his SUV?”

“Doesn't smell like it.”

“It's consistent with the security tapes,” Derek joined in, holding up the flashdrive that he'd obtained from the guard. “Lone figure dressed in green scrubs put Parrish in the back of his SUV then walked away while the car drove off.”

Stilinski rounded his full attention on him at that, arms folded over his chest in an authoritative manner. “Get a look at the guy's face?”

“Not from the hall or parking deck cameras, but the guard Lopez also gave me footage from a few other key areas that'll hopefully show something.”

The sheriff nodded, hand rubbing the back of his neck before pointing at his deputy with his entire hand. “I can't be in charge of two tasks at once, so I'm gonna put you in charge of finding Parrish since you're better suited for that kinda thing.” He pointed to his nose then an ear as an explanation, hinting at Derek's superior senses as a Supe. “I trust you to know what to do and what is and isn't procedure. Just keep me updated throughout the night.”

Derek bobbed his head once in acknowledgment before turning to head out the door. Only to stop when Lydia popped up from her seat to the side and got completely in his way.

“I'm coming with you,” she stated, arms folded, hip cocked, jaw set in a determined line. With her chin tipped up and her eyes narrowed, Derek was reminded how exactly Lydia Martin managed to get her way with practically anything and everything.

Reaching around her, he plucked up her coat from her seat, corner of his lips quirking up in a faint hint of a smile. “I know,” he replied in slight amusement, unfolding the jacket and holding it up so she could turn around and slip her arms in the sleeves. “Besides, your special kind of help might come in handy.”

Her scent shifted to something sharp and intense, dread overpowering everything as her woolen trench was settled about her shoulders. Derek rubbed her upper arms in comfort before gently turning her around, still gripping her as he leaned down to look her in the eye.

“Banshees predict death. It doesn't always mean someone has already died,” he reminded her lowly, knowing exactly what she was worried about: that her “special brand of help” meant finding a dead body. Parrish's dead body.

She licked her lips before pressing them together, nodding absently as she stared off at nothing with watery eyes. But the anxiety and self-doubt was melting away, replaced by her previous bravery and determination. She tucked a section of loose hair behind her ear before smoothing down her skirt and adjusting her jacket. And when she met Derek's eyes again, it was with the fearless warrior look Lydia was famous for, the look that made tough men cry and strong women run.

“Let's go,” she ordered, spinning on a pumped heel and striding out the room, pink wool trench flouncing around her with each step.

A small smirk played on Derek's lip at the return of her soldier personality and he quickly fell into step behind her. His own resolve set into place, his own determination fueling his movements. They were gonna find Parrish—alive—and there was absolutely no chance of anyone getting in their way.

They first stopped at Wolcott's room, Lydia wanting to attempt to pick something up from Parrish's belongings. While she was busy shaking his belt and listening to the rattle of the buckle, Derek called their tech unit and tried to get a location on the SUV's GPS. The tech went a step further and had the GPS signal forwarded to Derek's phone so he could track it that way.

When she was finished with Parrish's belt and had handed it over to Boyd, she approached Derek with a new sense of confidence. Her head was held high, spine straight and stiff, and there was an air of hope hanging around her that had been dim before. “He's alive,” she stated, pressing her lips together in a nervous habit. “But I have no idea who took him or what happened.”

Derek nodded, exhaling deeply, feeling some of the tension he was holding in leave with the air. Parrish being alive put one fear to rest, but there was still the daunting task of finding him before that status changed.

With a sweep of the arm, he led her out the room and down the hall, keeping a hand loosely placed between her shoulder blades. He didn't drop it until they reached the sheriff's SUV—given to them with permission, since Derek's usual ride was MIA—and he opened the door for her. It was only moments later when they were on the road, his phone beeping in his pocket. He muttered out a swear before sliding it out, handing it to his passenger with instructions to check it.

“It's the GPS tracking,” Lydia answered, tapping away on the smartphone, lips pursed in concentration. Derek caught the movement out the corner of his eye as she flicked her finger along the screen, shrinking then stretching the image. “Oh my God.”

“What?” he asked nervously, not liking the way her scent shifted to a mix of disbelief and confusion, glancing back and forth between her and the road.

She held the phone up so he could see the screen, eyes wide behind the device. “It's your apartment building.”

Derek's eyebrows shot up, heart pounding and stomach twisting. Hope bubbled in his chest, excitement growing at the fact that they might have just found their missing friend. But the more cynical part of him felt like it was too easy, that there was no way it should take just a quick phone call and a GPS to locate him.

He put his feelings in check, sliding back into professional mode, knowing he couldn't afford to get too emotional. Last time he'd let himself get too invested like that, he'd had his heart broken and his hopes dashed to hell. He wasn't about to let that happen again. Not to mention he wasn't about to let it happen to Lydia and watch her be left by another man—even if it wasn't exactly the guy's choice this time.

Flipping on the sirens, he pressed the gas pedal down more and swerved around a car in front of him. Dumb hope or not, he wasn't about to let the chance to rescue his partner go by the wayside.

There was no sheriff SUV outside the apartment building.

There was also no trace of Parrish's scent.

Yet the GPS was telling them that Parrish was there.

It was beyond confusing.

Derek stood in the dark parking lot, relying more on his wolf-vision than his human one now that the sky was completely black, trying to figure out their next move. The location of the GPS signal's origin was their only clue so far, their only lead, and it wouldn't exactly be wise to not completely follow through. There was nothing to say it was a dead end, not entirely anyway, and until there was and it was one-hundred percent accurate that they were going nowhere, he wasn't gonna call it quits.

Turning to his right, he found a fully resolved—and slightly scared, although she'd never admit it—Lydia, lips pressing together and eyes watering in ways that betrayed her otherwise steely exterior. With a nod of the head, he led her inside the building and into the elevator.

The cart itself was old, the doors screeching as he pulled them closed and hit the button for the third floor, Parrish's floor. Their shared building lent itself to a more industrial style of architecture and the cargo elevator just added to it, the space larger than one would normally find in a traditional apartment complex.

But despite the larger interior of it, Derek's nose was still flooded with Lydia's anxiety, the scent growing stronger as the elevator jerked before starting its ascent. He knew it had little to do with the elevator itself, knew she'd ridden in it countless times, knew by the complaints she often made about how the door was too high and she had to jump to try and grab it, flustered rants about how lucky she was that she didn't land wrong and break an ankle, or worse: her shoe.

Alright, so the elevator made her a little nervous, but not to the point where her scent would be that sharp. No, Lydia was too busy worrying over Parrish and more than likely that fear was outweighing her dislike of the service cart.

Licking his lips, Derek glanced over at the redhead before facing forward once more, hooking his thumbs in his utility belt in an attempt to seem more casual, in an attempt to make her more at ease.

“He's gonna be alright,” he consoled her, keeping his voice gentle, low, hiding his own nerves. “This is nothing compared to what he went through in Afghanistan.” It was a huge assumption to make, since Parrish offered little details about his tours overseas, but it didn't take a genius to know that no matter the case, the guy had been through Hell over there. There wasn't a soldier alive who hadn't.

“He diffused bombs in Afghanistan,” Lydia sniped, her own voice husky and thick with emotion. Her tone was the same condescending one she'd used to rule Beacon Hills High but had mellowed out on—as far as Derek knew anyway—during her time at MIT. Yet her old habit of being snappy with someone when she was upset was rearing its ugly head, something he only ever witnessed after a few glasses of whatever Skinny Girl cocktail she'd brought with her to Derek's loft to indulge in while complaining about Stiles and his pussy bullshit behavior—her words, although he agreed with them completely.

“Being kidnapped and held hostage by a group of maniacal serial killers is a totally different thing,” she added on, still snarking and pouting haughtily up at him.

He hated how she had a point.

And while he did see-saw his head and conceded to her argument, he also remained undeterred in his mini-quest to comfort her and make her feel at least a little bit less worried over the missing male's condition. “True,” he admitted, scratching his whisker-covered jaw. “But it's Parrish. He's not gonna just roll over and give in to these guys. He's gonna fight with everything he has and make damn sure he gets free and gets back to you.” He peered down at her, eyebrows raised as he gave her a pointed look that told her she knew damn well what he was implying with those words and she better not act like she didn't.

She didn't play ignorant, much to his pleasure, instead rolling her eyes as she turned her head away, licking her full lips before pursing them. “It's not like that between us,” she argued, though the blush creeping across the apples of her cheeks disagreed. And the way her heart rate picked up—not on a lie though—spoke volumes on how she wanted them to be like that.

The corner of Derek's lips twitched up briefly, amusement flickering somewhere beneath his concern over his partner. “Then all the more reason for Parrish to fight,” he stated, turning to face the front as the elevator slowed to a stop. “There's no way he'd leave things hanging like that, especially not when it comes to you.”

Lydia's blush deepened and her heart sped up even more, but she said nothing. She gave a brief shake of the head to flick the hair that had fallen out her crown of braids out of her face, smoothing her jacket about her legs. Fussing over her appearance was a dead giveaway when it came to Lydia, a sign that she was rattled inside and was once more trying to hide it. He wanted to tell her not to bother, that he wouldn't think any less of her, to remind her that he'd seen her in even worse states, but the elevator buzzed loudly as soon as he opened his mouth. Deciding to just let it go—since pointing it out would unsettle her further—he gripped the door and flung it up, keeping a hand near his still holstered gun just in case.

There were no noises in the hallway, besides the typical electric buzz of exposed light bulbs stationed every few feet along the gray walls and the rush of water through the plumbing, but Derek still moved with caution down the hall. He kept his senses heightened, his eyes scanning the area, feet moving quietly and stepping lightly all the way to Parrish's door on the left, Lydia's heels clicking behind him all the way.

It was unlocked when he tested the handle, his hand automatically slipping his pistol free from its holster and flipping off the safety. He strained his hearing, not picking up any sounds from within; no heartbeats, no breathing, no movement. He wasn't entirely reassured by the lack of noises, the more negative part of his brain reminding him that corpses didn't make any sounds. But there was also an absence of strange scents, no blood or decay, no chemosignals alerting him to any previous fights or struggles there. All he picked up was the faded, stale scent of Parrish when he left for work that afternoon.

Still, he kept his senses on high and his body on full alert, just in case. He didn't care about what happened to himself, but he was accompanied by a civilian who was relying on him to keep her safe. He wasn't taking chances with her.

Lydia moved to the side and pressed herself back against the wall as Derek slid the door open, sticking his gun into the apartment and swinging it side to side before he stepped in. No movement, no sounds, no scents. Empty.

He flipped the safety back on and reholstered his gun then further entered the apartment. Parrish's place was just as open as Derek's, the entire building full of open concept loft spaces that he was sure were meant to be stylish and hip, but instead just looked unfinished and abandoned. The kitchen area to the left had every appliance available, including a dishwasher Parrish had obviously had installed himself, and a round table with six chairs. The living room area boasted two large couches, a coffee table covered with scattered magazines, and an entertainment unit complete with flatscreen TV. The bedroom area was cordoned off with Japanese screens featuring silhouettes of cherry blossom branches, giving a semblance of privacy to the area that Derek hadn't bothered with in his own place.

But despite all the furnishings and random paraphernalia scattered about—including a BHSD mug on the kitchen counter by a Keurig machine and a UI-Chicago hoodie draped over the back of the couch—that all showed signs that someone lived there, the place was void of life.

Not a good sign.

The sounds of heels clicking against concrete drew his attention and he spun around from his position in the living room to witness Lydia making her way down the steps. Her head was slightly turned to the side, as if focusing her hearing elsewhere, green eyes distant, full lips parted. It was a sight Derek had viewed several times and he instantly recognized it as the Banshee hearing something on a different level only she could access.

“Lydia?” he began lowly, cautiously, stepping closer to her. She didn't give him any sort of sign that she heard him, just kept moving forward like she was in a trance and her legs were no longer her own. “What is it? What are you hearing?”

Her eyes narrowed in concentration, head tilting while she continued on her way, passing Derek by entirely. “It's like,” she started then stopped, face scrunching up in frustration when she couldn't figure out the right way to describe it. “Cracking. And popping. Like someone walking over Rice Krispies.” She shook her head, hand to her forehead in aggravation, jaw clenching as she let out her own version of a frustrated growl.

Derek rotated around, watching her with a furrowed brow as she stepped between the two screens petitioning off the bedroom area. He didn't hesitate to follow her, partially due to the faith that she'd find something and partially to continue protecting her. He wouldn't hear the end of it from Laura if she knew he let something bad happen to a female. Plus it was his partner's girl—or at least the girl his partner was very obviously into—and his ex's best friend. Or former best friend really...

Not to mention the fact that Derek honestly liked the girl. And after countless nights of her ranting about their mutual ex, she'd become almost a friend of sorts to him, someone who could relate to the emptiness he felt with Stiles' sudden disappearance—albeit relating to an entirely different degree.

So something happening to Lydia wouldn't just upset Parrish or give Laura another reason to yell and lecture and call him a crap younger brother; it would also hurt Derek himself.

Sounded pretty selfish when he really thought about it, but in all honesty, he was just refusing to lose another person in his life.

Lydia paused by the side of the bed, eyes fixated on the mattress and the maroon comforter laying over it. Derek positioned himself on her left and followed her line of sight, brows raising in surprise at the inconspicuous black box sitting in the middle of the bed, completely out of place.

Her head tilted to the side in curiosity, body leaning forward with her arm outstretched to grab a hold of it. But Derek's fast reflexes stopped her, his own arm flying out in front of her torso and hauling her upright.

“Don't touch it. It's evidence,” he warned her, knowing it would be best to just leave it be. Forensics would need to analyze it, dust it for fingerprints and hope like hell they find a match already in the system. Lydia touching it would transfer her own prints, potentially covering the perp's, and contaminating any evidence, making it unusable and inadmissible in court.

She turned her head to him, brow furrowed, lips parted. “What is it?”

Derek kept his eyes locked on the black box, on the exposed wires, on the blinking red light on the back of it. He'd known what it was the second he'd laid eyes on it, his heart plummeting when he'd realized their only lead had just fallen through.

He swallowed hard, hating the lump that formed in his throat, hating that his earlier consoling phrases he'd made to Lydia had fallen through and he could no longer reassure even himself. But he couldn't lie, couldn't sugarcoat, couldn't give her any kind words to make her feel better about their current situation. He had to give her the truth, as hard as it was.

“It's the GPS from Parrish's SUV.”

Derek grabbed an evidence bag and some rubber gloves from the back of the sheriff's SUV, using them to switch off the GPS then collect it for further analyzing. He texted Stilinski along the way, updating the sheriff on their findings and Lydia's auditory clue about cracking and popping, along with the fact that Parrish's apartment was empty and void of any other clues. His boss told him he'd send a CSU team there later to dust for prints and see if there was any other evidence. The deputy sent back a quick “ok” before giving the apartment an inspection of his own, trying to sniff out any clues.

He caught the same scent he'd found at the Wolcott's last night, one of the humans who'd helped kill nearly an entire family, leading Derek to figure the cases were connected. But it didn't make any sense. Parrish was human himself, not a Supe like all the other victims had been. There was no reason to target him or harm him in any way.

Unless the guy knew something he wasn't sharing with the rest of the department.

No. No way. Not Parrish. The guy was the epitome of a Boy Scout, a former Marine who knew that things only worked when everyone operated as a team and with all the available information. He was a huge skeptic when it came to Derek's confession that his ex had bailed without an explanation, insisting that there must've been something Stiles said or did at some point to alert his then-boyfriend about his plans, never believing his partner despite countless arguments that no, there really wasn't. He just didn't buy that anyone wouldn't share anything with anyone, especially not a person they were so close to.

So to think that Parrish was hiding something, a serious something to the point where his life was put at risk, it was impossible. The guy just didn't have it in him.

But he didn't smell like a Supe, didn't give off any sort of aura that made him something beyond the regular ol' human image he projected to the world. The group of Supe-targeting murderers abducting him was completely illogical and beyond Derek's reasoning.

Yet it'd happened.

What the fuck?

Further investigating showed no signs of a break-in, meaning the perp who'd left the GPS had done so using Parrish's own key. And the GPS had been placed out in the open—more or less—and left switched on, leading the deputy to believe they'd been meant to find it, had been purposely led down the wrong path.

But why remove the GPS and hide it separately? Why not just dump the whole car? Wouldn't it have been easier that way?

The more Derek thought about it, the less sense everything made and it was starting to give him a headache. But one thing was clear: the apartment was a dead end and they were wasting time hanging around in it.

He asked Lydia if she'd picked anything else up, gotten any other clues from beyond, getting a head shake in response. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her chest, tiny body shivering, green eyes watery as she stared off at nothing. Something about her body language put his wolf on edge and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders before leading her out the loft, not wanting to spend any more time there.

“It's so weird,” she whispered huskily, absently, almost like she wasn't aware she was speaking. And given the way her Banshee powers worked with auto-drawing and writing, sleepwalking, the trances she'd sometimes fall into, it wouldn't be all that much of a stretch if she'd later admit she didn't remember saying anything to Derek in that hallway. “That crackling is still going and I know there's danger and something's wrong, but they keep telling me it's okay.”

Derek glanced down at her, not saying anything. There were no words really. He no longer felt confident enough to reassure her, not when time was still ticking by, not when it seemed like things were stacking up against them, so he couldn't tell her that the voices were right, that it would be okay. But he couldn't argue with Banshees or the things they knew, aware that their knowledge and insight went beyond what anyone could hear or comprehend, Supe or not.

Still, her trembling and her belief that something was wrong were further putting him on edge and ratcheting up his own anxieties.

So rather than speaking meaningless words that wouldn't do a damn thing for either one of them, he hauled her in closer to his body, hand rubbing her upper arm, mind churning over a million different things all at once.

Their next step was to drive around town in the hopes of stumbling upon the missing vehicle. There was already an APB out for it, everyone in a uniform well aware to be on the look-out for a Sheriff's Department SUV with no license plates, but Derek didn't know what else to do. There were no clues, no scent trails, nothing that could help them find Parrish and they were running out of time. There was no telling whether or not the people who'd taken him would keep him alive and for how long. He and Lydia—and the rest of the team assigned to help locate the missing deputy—were racing against an invisible hour glass and he had the sinking feeling the sand was almost gone.

The way Lydia's face was growing paler by the minute wasn't helping, nor was the way she was clutching at her head as though it could stop the sounds plaguing her mind, lips pressed tight together to hold in a scream. She progressively became more hunched over in her seat, curling in on herself, a red-haired armadillo in a protective ball sitting in the passenger seat.

But the worst part was when she suddenly sat up straight, inhaling sharply as her eyes widened. Her heart skipped a beat before pounding twice as loudly, scent shifting to something even more terrified than before, and her hands shook as she lowered them onto her lap.

“It stopped,” she whispered, voice raspy. “The noise, the crackling. It just. Stopped.” Her lips hung open as she breathed shakily, head twisted and tilted slightly, eyes staring at the dashboard in front of her without seeming to really see it. A frown was on her face, confusion coloring her scent, and Derek felt his own emotions being affected by the smell of hers.

Derek glanced back and forth between the windshield and his passenger, brows raised in question and worry. The sound suddenly stopping was never a good sign. Usually it preceded finding a dead body and if that particular crackling noise was connected to Parrish...

Nope. He wasn't gonna let himself think about it. He needed to remain professional, keep his wits about him, not let his fear and anxiety overwhelm him and prevent him from thinking straight. He needed to keep a level head so he could think things through and figure out the next step, decipher the next clue. He needed to remain rational and strong not only so he could do his job—and do it well—but for Lydia's sake, too.

Lydia, who was currently shaking her head at nothing, lips still parted, brow still furrowed. “Why did it stop?”

It was a rhetorical question and he knew it. So instead of answering, Derek flicked on the indicator and hung a right, mind running over a map of the city and the quickest way to the sheriff's station. They'd been driving around for nearly an hour and had come up with nothing but a less full gas tank and the sinking feeling that their search was about to turn into one for a body.

The station was practically deserted when Derek and Lydia headed inside. Greenberg was manning the front desk, nodding at them as they passed, busy on the phone and jotting something down. The bullpen was near empty, only Haigh and Lahey seated at their respective desks, the human typing away on his computer as the Werewolf reminded someone down the phone line that the SUV they were looking for had no license plates.

Lydia automatically seated herself behind Parrish's desk, located at the very front just in front of the sheriff's office door, going through his drawers. Derek tapped his knuckles against the wood twice on his way past, acknowledging her following through on the plan she had made on the ride to the station. Without a word, he headed to his own desk at the back, one row over, placing the bagged GPS device and the security camera footage flashdrive on top.

Almost immediately, Haigh spun around in his swivel chair from his station in front of Derek, gesturing to Lydia with his thumb over his shoulder. “What is she doing?”

Derek glanced over at his friend, watching as she opened a side drawer and rooted around inside. “Looking for clues,” he answered flatly, switching his line of sight back to his own desk, slipping his jacket off.

“In Parrish's desk?” the other deputy questioned skeptically, hand dropping to his lap with a loud smack.

“She's a Banshee,” the Werewolf pointed out in the same flat tone, the nylon of his jacket swishing loudly with his movements. “She's looking for something personal to use to connect to other Banshees to try and get their help.”

Haigh snorted, eyes rolling and head shaking. He never made his feelings regarding Banshees a secret, frequently voiced his beliefs that they were expert bullshitters more than anything and were practically the same as the scam artists who ran psychic hotlines. Derek had learned to tune the guy out, fully aware that he was a bigoted dickhead who wasn't too keen on Supes and believed they were all freaks of nature that thought they were superior to humans. Which was bullshit really, since the only people with superiority complexes that the Werewolf had ever interacted with tended to be human themselves. Like Haigh.

And Derek's uncle Peter, but that was more due to him being an egotistical asshole than his Werewolf nature.

He glanced over at Lydia, who'd turned in her own chair and was glaring holes in the back of Haigh's head, hands clenched around a chain of sorts, lips pinched. If looks could kill, Derek would be adding Haigh to the list of recent murder victims. But she didn't say anything in response to the prick's attitude, simply rose gracefully to her petite height, flicked her hair out of her face with a quick shake of the head, and announced she was headed to the ladies' room. With a swish of her coat and a click of her nude pumps, she went on her way with her head held high like the queen she was.

Derek couldn't help the small swell of pride he felt at her exit as he watched her disappear around the corner and head down the hall to the bathroom. It was no wonder Parrish was totally enamored with her.

Turning back to Haigh, Derek gestured to the rest of the bullpen with a bob of the head. “Where is everyone?”

The human slumped down in his seat, legs spread as wide as his khaki slacks would allow, arms folded over his chest in a manner that was a combination of hostile and closed off. His scent was bland, bored, yet slightly aggravated that he actually had to have a conversation with someone. “At the hospital for that Wendigo kid or out looking for Parrish.”

Something twinged inside of Derek, a red flag of sorts popping up, but he ignored it and the way his wolf was whining. There were other, more important matters to attend to than his inexplicable uneasy gut feeling. “There should still be more people here than just you, Lahey, and Greenberg,” he pointed out, crossing his own arms as he stared down at the other deputy.

“A couple got called out to this fire.”

“Fire?”

“Yeah,” Haigh responded before stretching over the back of his chair, arms extended above himself. “Someone called in a fire in the middle of some abandoned parking lot. Turned out to be a car.” He slumped back in his seat with a sigh, cracking his neck as he continued. “Probably some punk-ass kids torching whatever vehicle they jacked for a joyride. Fucking idiots.”

Derek slowly nodded once, noting how it seemed like Supes weren't the only kind that Haigh disliked; he just hated everyone really. Once again, he felt that weird twinge that something wasn't quite right with what the other man was saying. He didn't get a chance to further analyze the feeling though, attention pulled by Greenberg bursting through the door, looking sweaty and pale, eyes wide and heartbeat frantic.

“Deputy Hale!” he called out, pausing to swallow hard, scent full of adrenaline and fear yet with the strange undercurrent of excitement. “The car that was torched? It's the missing sheriff SUV with no plates.”

Everything in the room stilled, boiled down to four distinct, pounding hearts and a ringing phone that was going ignored. Haigh sat up straighter, chair creaking with the sudden movement. Lahey choked on an exhale before grabbing the phone, having finished with his previous call. And Derek... Derek stood there stunned for a long moment as the implications of those words fully sunk in.

Parrish's car. The one that had been taken when he was abducted, the vehicle used to transport his unconscious body away from the hospital to parts unknown.

Or previously unknown, as it currently stood.

The Werewolf mentally shook himself out of it before striding over to Greenberg, noting how the smaller male shrank back slightly. Nothing personal really, just an instinctual reaction to a rapidly approaching Supe who could possibly be stalking its prey.

“They're sure?” Derek double-checked as he pulled to a stop in front of the other deputy, inhaling a stronger scent of fear than before. His own emotions were out of whack, vacillating between the joy of his friend having been found and the terror of his partner being found dead.

Greenberg swallowed hard before squeaking out a “yeah” and clearing his throat. “The VIN number matches and they found Parrish's badge and name tag on the dash by the wheel.”

Clenching his fingers into fists to hide the shakiness his hands, Derek slowly nodded while taking the info in. Only to stop when one very important fact stuck out. “Wait. They found his things, but not Parrish himself?”

The younger male nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir. There was no body there. I asked twice.”

He frowned in confusion, mind unable to figure out what the hell it all meant. Unless Parrish's abductors were fucking with them once more, leading them down yet another dead end, much like they did with the GPS. But why removed the GPS so the SUV couldn't be found only to torch it and draw attention to its location that way? None of what was happening with that case was making any sense.

His surname was called out and he turned his head to his right to see Lahey approach them. “Just spoke to a woman who claimed she saw a naked man wandering down her street. She wants us to go find him before he shows up and quote 'further disturbs and corrupts the youth living in her neighborhood'.”

A harsh sigh left him as he smeared a hand over his face, whiskers scratching loudly against his rough palm. Public indecency. He really didn't have time for that bullshit, not with everyone else going on that night.

The sounds of high heels clicking on the linoleum floor reached his ears but he ignored it as he turned to face Haigh, deciding he'd repay the guy's dickish behavior that day by making him take the call. Yet he never got a word out then either, disrupted by Lydia this time.

“Jordan!”

The three deputies snapped their heads towards her as she stood at the end of the hallway. It hadn't been a death shriek or a wail out of despair, but a cry out of shock, surprise and relief coloring her scent in bright notes. A huge smile was on her face, body slumping with alleviation, watery eyes focused on something by the back entrance of the station.

Derek turned his head to figure out what it was she was staring at, feeling shock freeze him in place. Standing just inside the room was Parrish, alive, whole, in one piece.

And naked.

And covered in black soot.

Relief and joy rolled off Lahey and Greenberg, followed quickly by confusion then alarm as Parrish stalked forward. He didn't acknowledge anyone else in the room, didn't say a word. His face was completely expressionless, no ticks or twitches beneath the black ash dirtying his skin. But the anger and hatred he was feeling was a potent smell, overpowering even the ash and fire that was surely clinging to him.

Haigh's eyes widened as he took in the other deputy who was slowly making his way closer to him, his heart pounding violently in his chest. Derek found himself rooted to the spot, the shock of Parrish showing up and his appearance causing his mind to become fuzzy and his body slow to react. So when Haigh finally broke the silence that had fallen over them, it took him a moment to figure out exactly what had been said.

“You're supposed to be dead!”

The words had broken Parrish out of whatever trance he'd been in, the naked male lunging at the uniformed one with a growl. The impact caused them both to fall to the floor, Parrish landing on top of Haigh with a hand around his throat, the other pulling back to punch him in the face. Again. And again. And again.

The crack of broken bone snapped Derek out of his own stupor, racing over to pull the two men apart. Grabbing Parrish by the upper arms, he hauled his partner up, the human fighting him, spitting out curses and insults the likes of which Derek had never heard coming from the grown Boy Scout with the angelic features.

“Parrish, calm down!” Derek ordered, dragging a still struggling Parrish away from Haigh. “Parrish!”

“I'm gonna kill you!” the human spat out, still focused on the deputy he'd been pulled from, still reaching out to try and swipe at him. “You're gonna fucking pay, Haigh!”

“Parrish!”

Lahey helped Haigh get on his feet, only to wrap his arms around his chest when the older deputy tried to lunge at Parrish to get a few hits in himself.

“You see what he did to me?” he cried out, head jerking back and forth between the two Werewolves, not fighting Lahey's hold on him. “Guy just attacked me outta nowhere.”

“You tried to kill me, you asshole!” Parrish yelled back, still fighting Derek's hold, the Werewolf now gripping him around his torso.

Derek paused where he'd been dragging his friend across the room, the two now standing between two desks on the third row, the one closest to the main entrance of the bullpen. “What?” he barked out, unable to be sure that what he'd just heard was right.

The fight seemed to go out of Parrish, though he still rested his body weight on the Werewolf's arms, like if he became a dead enough weight, he could break the hold that way. “He cuffed me to the steering wheel and set the car on fire.”

Four heads snapped to Haigh, who just stood there with his mouth gaping, completely unaware that Lahey's eyes were flashing gold in anger right behind his head. Upon realizing everyone's attention was on him, he sputtered out a dubious laugh, gesturing to the ash-covered deputy.

“Are you guys seriously believing this bullshit? He's so full of it.”

Derek narrowed his own glowing eyes at the accused male, nodding to Lahey. The Werewolf understood the wordless command, grabbing hold of Haigh's wrists and yanking them behind his back before slipping his cuffs out his belt.

“Hey!” Haigh objected, turning his head to peer behind himself. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Putting you in lock-up,” Derek stated, watching as the deputy practically broke his neck as he whipped his head to him. “Parrish's heart was steady, no blips, scent completely neutral, meaning he was telling the truth.”

“And you reek of fear and guilt right now,” Lahey pointed out, snapping the cuffs around Haigh's wrists before removing his utility belt. “Not to mention your heart rate is all over the place.”

“Which means you're the one completely full of shit,” the elder Werewolf wrapped up, watching as the younger one patted the deputy down. “And you'll be hanging out in a cell until the sheriff can come here and question you himself.”

Haigh's scent turned into something bitter and spicy, his hatred and anger contorting his features into a disgusted sneer as he narrowed his eyes at Derek. “You Supes are all fuckin' alike,” he spat out, glaring over his shoulder, then back at Derek. “You all think you're so fucking great when really you're all freaks.” He pointedly stared at Lydia on the last word, before returning to Derek once more. “Every single one of you is an abomination.” He then shifted his gaze slightly, now focused on Parrish, sneering even more. “Burn in Hell.”

“Pretty sure you already tried that,” Parrish pointed out, voice now level and back to the regular even tone he was known for. His heart was calm, the fight gone out of him, and he watched closely as Haigh was hauled off by Lahey down a side hall towards the cells.

Derek waited until the cell door was shut with a definitive clang before releasing his partner, the human stepping over to where Lydia remained at the end of the other hallway. The Werewolf let the two of them be, heading over to Lahey as the younger one returned, mind back in a more professional setting. “I want you to keep an eye on him,” he ordered, pointing to the beta. “He's not to get any visitors, no phone calls, nothing. He's completely cut off from the world until we can figure out who he's working with.”

Lahey nodded at the command before furrowing his brow. “What about the sheriff?”

“I'll update the sheriff on everything. I gotta get Parrish to the hospital to get checked out anyway. Go lock up Haigh's belt then write up your report.”

“Yes, sir.” Another nod from the beta then he set off to follow through on his orders.

Derek turned around and sent Greenberg back to his station, telling him to call back the woman who'd complained about the naked man in her neighborhood and inform her that they'd taken care of the situation. Chances were it'd just been Parrish making his way to the station and she'd happened to look out her window at the wrong time.

Although why she was peeking out at three am...

He shook the thought away, knowing it wasn't worth going there. There were enough mysteries racing through his head, enough questions that needed answers, starting with Parrish himself.

Switching his train of thought, he focused his attention on his partner and his friend. The two were standing with barely an inch of space between them, foreheads pressed together—despite the obvious height difference—Parrish's hands on her hips, Lydia's cupping his neck. Neither seemed to care that he was naked and covered in soot and more than likely getting it all over her designer coat—which was a first really—both of them lost in their little world where all that matter was the other person and the fact that they were right there with them.

Derek felt his chest tighten at the sight, a lump forming in his throat as he tore his eyes away, hating the sting he felt in the back of them. It was an intimate scene, one he'd seen with other participants: his mom and dad, his sister and her Mate, one of his mom's unofficial betas Scott and his then-girlfriend Allison—who just happened to be Laura's step-daughter and thus making the whole thing a tiny bit incestuous. So while the picture of a happy couple wasn't anything new to Derek, it still made him ache inside and reminded him of the giant Stiles-shaped hole he'd been wearing for nearly three years now.

And, of course, his eyes chose to focus on the gaudy gold tinsel wrapped around all the desks and draped around the walls, the wreaths decorating all the doors, the fake mistletoe hanging from the thresholds of the hallways. Two days 'til Christmas, his brain reminded him, and one day 'til the anniversary of Stiles disappearing.

Shit.

Giving the couple a moment of privacy, he headed off to the locker room to grab Parrish a spare set of sweats to wear, knowing it wouldn't be a good idea to take the guy to the hospital wearing nothing but ash. His shifted his mental focus once more to his partner's case, to the confusing details of the night, the misplaced GPS, the torched SUV, the near-brawl in the bullpen.

“You tried to kill me, you asshole!”

“Every single one of you is an abomination.”

“Burn in Hell.”

“Pretty sure you already tried that.”

“He cuffed me to the steering wheel and set the car on fire.”

Yet Parrish had survived. Granted his clothes were gone and he'd probably smell like ash for days, but still. He was alive and seemingly well, soon to be examined by medical professionals to make sure of it. Set on fire, clothes burned away, car scorched, yet still alive, walked for miles to the station, then attacked another deputy.

Completely fine.

Completely confusing.

Derek smeared a hand over his face as he grabbed a set of BHSD sweats from an open locker, spare clothes set aside for any deputy who'd forgotten them and wanted to work out, for any random naked idiot who'd gone around flashing people before being taken into custody, for any victim whose clothes had been destroyed in an attack.

A victim like Parrish. Who'd been taken and abducted and then... set on fire?

Nothing was making sense and Derek was getting a serious headache and this fucking holiday wasn't helping a goddamn thing. He mentally cursed out a green and red paper chain as it hung in long swags along a side wall, as though swearing at it would bring him answers, would bring him peace. Would bring back Stiles.

He slammed the locker door shut with more force than necessary before stomping out the room. Really, he should've been happy that his partner was alive and well and that his friend wouldn't have to mourn the loss of another male and a relationship that never got a chance. But instead, a small bitter part of him was hung up on how completely unfair it was that Lydia got her man back, but Derek never would.

Whatever. It was the holiday making him grumpy, had to be. Besides, getting an ash-smelling partner was better than a lump of coal and that was probably better than a so-called abomination like himself deserved.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean there's no burns?”

Derek switched his gaze from the sheriff to Nurse McCall, eyebrows raised at her, his boss having voiced his own thought. It'd been a long three hours at the hospital and despite a brief nap in the waiting room with Lydia, he was still feeling the intense lack of sleep catch up with him.

He'd texted the sheriff before driving over that Parrish had been found and Haigh put in custody, promising to give the full story when they arrived at the hospital. Stilinski had met them down in the ER, Nurse McCall taking Parrish in to be checked out, Lydia demanding to go with him but ultimately being denied. Instead, she'd helped Derek catch the sheriff up on everything that they'd been through that night, including her admittance that she'd taken Parrish's dog-tags from his desk and used them to get a sign from other Banshees, the voices telling her that he'd died but hadn't died and she was still confused about all of it.

Stilinski's face grew more pinched as the night had worn on and become more and more of a morning than anything. He told Derek that they'd found a couple bullet casings in Wolcott's room, but ultimately no further clues, giving them a momentary dead end that they both hoped Haigh would help them find a way around.

The rest of the time was spent in the waiting room, doing exactly what the space was designed for. Lydia conked out soon after, curled up over a couple chairs, Parrish's dog-tags still clutched in her fist like a security blanket. Derek took the seat next to her and tried to stay awake for news, only to ultimately lose the fight with fatigue and pass out. He'd been awoken by Nurse McCall's gentle prodding and twisted lips that said she had news but not really news. Stilinski had been right behind her, ultimately being the one to voice everyone's disbelief when she'd announced that after a thorough exam and several tests, Parrish showed no burns or singes anywhere on his body, not even his hair.

She let out a sigh, waving a hand around in a gesture that stated she honestly had no clue before putting the appendage to her forehead. “I have no idea,” she stated honestly, putting both hands on her hips. “We cleaned him up and looked all over and there's nothing. Aside from his smoky smell, it's like he was never even near a fire, much less inside one.”

Derek rose to his feet, ignoring the creak in his joints and the cramps in his muscles, folding his arms over his chest. “He was definitely in one though,” he argued. “He didn't lie about it.”

“I'm sure he was,” the nurse agreed with a nod. “Or that at the very least he believes so strongly that he was in one, that it doesn't feel like a lie to him and wouldn't come across as one to a Werewolf.” She shrugged and shook her head, once again at a loss for words. “I don't know what to tell you guys, except that the physical evidence proves otherwise.”

The Werewolf repeatedly rubbed at his face, tuning out as Stilinski thanked Nurse McCall for her help and for rushing everything for them, escorting her out the waiting room as she headed off to return to her duties. Duties that so far that night had included finding dead bodies and examining a man who'd been set on fire but didn't have any fire related injuries.

The woman needed a raise.

Stilinski scuffed his way back over, hand rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks puffed as he slowly blew out a sigh through pinched lips. It was an action Derek had witnessed the man's son do repeatedly, usually when dealing with mountains of chemistry homework at the hands of his sadistic teacher or recalling his male best friend's latest full moon escapades.

His male best friend who happened to be Nurse McCall's Werewolf son.

His male best friend who happened to have been mentored by Talia Hale and an unofficial member of their familial Pack.

Beacon Hills was too fucking small sometimes.

“So he's okay?” Lydia questioned shakily from her seat on one of the chairs. She'd taken her braids out when they'd first began their wait and despite having just laid down sleeping for a couple hours, the red locks still lay perfectly around her head in soft waves.

Derek peered down at her, noting how she was wringing her hands together, the chain from Parrish's dog-tags tangled amongst her fingers. “Depends on your definition of 'okay',” he muttered, probably louder than he'd meant to given her wide-eyed dubious look and the kick she delivered to his shin. He gave her an apologetic wince and shrugged a shoulder.

“I'm afraid Derek has a point,” Stilinski spoke up, earning an offended glare from his deputy for the remark. “Physically, it sounds like he's okay, but—” He trailed off, hand making circles as he tried to come up with the right words. “No one can survive a fire like that and be completely okay. Obviously something else is going on here and there's a possibility someone might be back to finish the job the way they did with the Wolcott kid.”

Derek glanced over to see Lydia grow paler and swallow hard, her eyes flicking downwards, scent shifting to fear once more. “All the more reason to figure out who these guys are and lock 'em up,” the deputy declared, switching his focus back to his boss. “Why don't I talk to Parrish? See what he knows and figure out how exactly he got out of a flaming car unscathed.”

The sheriff nodded in agreement. “Good idea. This thing has Supernatural written all over it. Plus you'd get better answers outta him than I would.” He tapped his left pec twice, an obvious reference to his heartbeat and Derek's ability to detect blips in them that translated to lies.

The Werewolf slowly nodded once to show he understood the implication of his boss' actions. With a half-wave, he exited the waiting room, leaving Stilinski, Lydia, and their discussion over grabbing some food from the cafeteria.

He was able to find Parrish's room by scent, knocking on the open door before entering and closing it behind himself. It wasn't until he caught sight of his partner sitting on the edge of the bed in a hospital johnny and a pair of sweats when he realized just how tense and nervous he'd been, how worried he was that he'd go inside and Parrish would be missing again. But seeing the guy with his flattened, unstyled hair and the dark circles under his eyes set Derek at ease, a long exhale leaving him and taking the tension in his body with him.

A metal framed chair sat to the side and he dragged it over with a loud scrape that made him internally cringe, setting it near where his friend was sitting before sinking down onto the plush seat. He looked the human all over, able to inspect him better now that he wasn't covered in ash, finding nothing but pale, unblemished skin. He couldn't smell any injuries, any blood or singed flesh, and he was willing to bet that if he reached over and touched the guy, he wouldn't draw any pain out either. Nurse McCall had been right; he didn't look like he'd been in a fire at all.

Parrish sat up straighter from where he was slightly slumped over, hands gripping the edge of the mattress loosely, going for a more casual appearance. But Derek could smell the anxiety like a cheap cologne, the worry over what had happened to him and what exactly it meant, the residual anger at Haigh and his actions, the relief and happiness at seeing his friend sitting across from him.

A small smile quirked up the corner of the human's lips, not reaching his dull green eyes with their heavy lids and the redness from lack of sleep. “You look like shit,” he commented, voice slightly rougher than its usual smooth tone.

A snort left Derek, head bobbing with the action, hand smearing over his face. “Like you have room to talk.”

“I got set on fire. What's your excuse?”

He dropped his hand on his lap, elbows hanging on the arms of the chair. “I spent all night looking for your ass.”

Parrish cocked an eyebrow at him, still smirking. “Your detective skills are clearly lacking.”

“Maybe next time I'll just drive around town with my head out the window, trying to track down the scent of an ashtray. That sound like a better plan to you, Sherlock?” he deadpanned, ignoring the twinge in his chest and the familiar male voice in his head taking the dog joke and running it into the ground.

His partner was the one to snort this time, his lighter and more amused than Derek's had been, his small smile turning into something more grateful. “Seriously though, thanks for looking for me.”

Derek shrugged it off, shaking his head to say there was no need to thank him. There was no way he wasn't gonna search for his partner, regardless of Stilinski's orders. He had far too many reasons to not just let Parrish go. Not that he was gonna voice any of those. He'd always been a closed-off sort of guy, not really one for talking about feelings or emotions, and the fact that the last person he'd been open with about those things had bailed on him just made him even more reluctant to share things. Even Laura had commented on how he'd become more of a brick wall over the past three years, something he never responded or reacted to, just simply stared flatly at her until she sighed and threw her arms up in the air in exasperation.

One day she was just gonna give up on him and he wasn't entirely sure if he was looking forward to it or dreading it.

But for the time being, he was gonna take advantage of the mood switch in the room he was currently in, shifting the conversation elsewhere. “You feeling alright though? Seriously?”

Parrish shrugged, head hanging, slumped shoulders sagging more with a heavy sigh. “I dunno,” he muttered, no longer sounding like the confident, self-assured Parrish that Derek was used to working with. “The whole thing's got me freaked out. I mean.” He paused, lifting his head, chewing his bottom lip as he got his thoughts straight. “Physically, I'm okay, I'm perfectly fine. I don't feel any pain or have any injuries. But that's just freaking me out more, ya know? I should be hurt. I should be in a burn ward screaming in agony, if not a pile of ashes on the driver's seat.” He shook his head as his green eyes roamed the room, not focusing on any one thing. “I shouldn't be here.”

Derek didn't know how to respond to that. He hadn't been there while Parrish had been set on fire—well, allegedly set on fire, in the eyes of the law anyway—so he honestly had no clue if he was supposed to be alive or not. But the smell of smoke and the amount of ash that had covered his partner's body when he'd entered the sheriff's station led the Werewolf to believe that he must've had some sort of fire-related injury.

And yet...

Shifting in his seat, Derek got comfortable, cracking his sore neck. “Think you can tell me what happened?” he asked softly, knowing he needed to get info yet also realizing it was a delicate situation. He didn't wanna come across as callous and uncaring, that his only reason for being there was to question a vic. Because it wasn't. He truly had been worried over his friend and wanted to see for himself that the guy was in one piece and unscathed. And now that he saw that Parrish was physically unharmed, he wanted to punish the bastards that had taken him and put them all through such hell that night.

Parrish nodded, still not making eye contact, swallowing hard before he ducked his head again. “I showed up at the hospital to take over for Daehler and start my duty as Wolcott's guard,” he began, voice even yet thick with emotion, his scent shifting to something reluctant, like he was hesitant to go back through what had happened to him. Not that Derek blamed him. He had moments like that where he, too, just didn't wanna think about painful memories in his past. Being abducted and set on fire had to be one of those times.

“Daehler wasn't outside the room so I went in to see if maybe he was taking a leak or something and I found this guy standing over Daehler and Wolcott's bodies with a gun in his hand.”

Derek sat up straighter, leaning forward slightly. “He definitely had a gun in his hand?”

His partner raised his head, looking him square in the eye. “Yeah,” he answered honestly, no change in his heartbeat or scent. “Didn't get a good look at it, but it was a black pistol. Looked like maybe a Walther?” He scrunched his brow briefly as he tried to remember. “Yeah, most likely a Walther. And it had a silencer on the end and Punisher grips.”

The Werewolf nodded as he pulled out a notepad from his pocket and jotted it down, thinking the suppressor made sense. Would explain why no one had called security—or the cops—about gunshots being heard in a hospital room.

“Can you describe the guy?”

“Taller than you, so maybe about six-three or so.” He dropped his hand and furrowed his brow again. “Muscular, broad, but not a bodybuilder type. Maybe mid- to late-thirties, brown hair. Wore green scrubs but no ID card.”

Derek remembered the man on the security camera, noting how his partner's story matched up with the little amount of evidence they had so far. “So you went in the room and saw the guy standing over Wolcott and Daehler with a gun. Then what?”

Parrish inhaled shakily, scent switching to something horrified and disgusted, side-effects of the memory he was currently lost in. “I just froze,” he admitted lowly, shaking his head and shrugging as he stuttered. “I. I'd never seen anything like that, ya know? Not even in war. Just so much carnage. And, and blood and.” He stopped and shuddered, swallowed hard, ducked his head, tightened his grip on the edge of the mattress. “He took the opportunity and lunged at me. I couldn't react in time and I guess he stuck me with a needle, I dunno. I just remember feeling something sharp in my neck then I got really drowsy and fell down before blacking out.”

Derek scribbled down more notes as he spoke. “Security cameras show you being escorted out the room in a wheelchair dressed in a hospital johnny. We found your uniform and some of your things in the bathroom.”

The human bobbed his head to the side in concession. “Makes sense. I don't really remember much after that.” He shoved his hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp as he grimaced, trying to come up with a memory that wasn't there.

“It's all right,” Derek told him, meaning it. “Just tell me what you remember next.”

He dropped his hand as he nodded, returning his grip to the mattress edge. “I woke up cuffed in the SUV, the one we use. I recognized the indents in the steering wheel where you gripped it too hard and bent it. Haigh was there, pouring gas all over the car.”

“How'd you know it was gas?” the Werewolf interrupted, remaining professional. He'd ask the same question of any other vic and/or suspect and he couldn't afford to just take Parrish's word for it. They had to be one-hundred percent clear on all the details so the case against Haigh wouldn't fall through and the guy wouldn't get away with what sounded like arson and attempted murder.

“The driver's side window was open and I could smell it, especially when he poured it on me.”

Derek's eyebrows raised momentarily before he collected himself, quickly jotting that down. “He poured the gas directly on you?”

Parrish nodded, his heart rate picking up, but not out of lying. Out of the residual fear that came with the memory, a typical response Derek would get out of any vic recalling their story. “Yeah,” he rasped out, swallowing hard but seemingly unable to remove the lump from his throat, his voice still thick. “The whole time he kept muttering about Supes thinking they're better than everyone when they're nothing but abominations and that they were gonna get rid of all the freaks, cleanse the planet or some crap like that.”

The Werewolf leaned further forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. “'They'?” he double-checked, gesturing to his friend with his pen. “Haigh said they were gonna get rid of all the Supes?”

“Yeah. 'They'.”

He slammed himself back in his seat, disbelieving laugh huffing out of him. He'd been right in believing there was more than one perp and that all the cases were connected. An entire group of anti-Supes out to get rid of all Supernatural creatures.

Really sucked to be right sometimes.

Derek caught his notes up while asking Parrish to continue, his partner clearing his throat before doing so.

“Haigh lit a pack of matches, one of those tiny ones you get from bars, ya know?” he paused, waiting til the Werewolf nodded to show he understood before going on. “Then he tossed it right on me and ignited the gas.”

Derek breathed out a swear, smearing a hand over his face. It was gonna be a hard case to try, boiling down to Parrish's word against Haigh's due to a lack of evidence over Parrish actually being in the SUV as it burned. The guy was telling the truth, every word of it, but even a judge and jury of all Weres wouldn't entirely buy it. Too many people had figured out ways to cheat a Were's hearing and their ability to detect lies through heartbeats and there was no way to prove Parrish was being one-hundred percent honest. They were gonna need something else, more evidence, physical evidence, maybe even a witness to corroborate the story.

Finishing his notes, he looked back at his partner, noting how much paler he looked, how much wider his eyes were. He inhaled deeply, breathing in a mix of countless emotions he could barely sort through and kinda didn't want to. Things already felt too heavy, his own chest too tight with all the feelings he was suppressing. Adding in any sort of empathy or sympathy by figuring out and feeling what his partner was going through would be too much and he'd wind up at Eichen House after a breakdown of some sort.

“Was there anyone else there?” he asked, following his usual set of questions used in this situation. “Did you happen to notice another car or person standing around? Anything or anyone other than Haigh?”

Parrish frowned as he stared off at a random spot on the floor to the left of Derek, lips parted in thought. “Now that you mention it, yeah, there was someone.” He lifted his eyes to his partner, brow still creased. “There was this old guy. I could see him through the windshield. I remember yelling at him to do something, to help me out while Haigh was pouring the gas on the car. But the guy just stood there, smiling really creepily, like he was watching a striptease or something else really—” He paused, struggling to come up with the right word before shrugging it off. “Basically he looked like he was really enjoying the fact that Haigh was trying to kill me.”

The older deputy felt his wolf's hackles rise and his more human half suffered a shiver racing down his spine. Something about Parrish's story gave him the chills, made him feel completely uneasy. Probably due to the fact that this old man was so cold and so messed up in the head that he'd get enjoyment out of someone's fiery death. Derek was more than aware of anti-Supes and their discriminatory ways, but he'd never heard of anyone being so against Supernatural creatures that they'd enjoy watching them die.

Too bad for the old guy it didn't happen with Parrish.

“Remember what he looked like?” Derek asked, hoping they could maybe get a lead that way. Maybe they could get his image out there, say they were looking for him as a witness to a crime—which he was, since there was no proof of his actual involvement—and maybe get more information on their group that way.

Parrish nodded, licking his lips, focusing his eyes on his partner. “Yeah. White hair, bald on top of his head, clean shaven. Between five-ten and six-foot, maybe a buck-eighty. He had a cane, black I think. Wore a dark coat and khaki pants.”

Derek quickly wrote it all down and made a note to have Parrish talk to a sketch artist to get an image to put out there. He'd also run the description through the system, see if it got any hits, maybe give them a place to start. Any little lead would help, especially if it turned out that Parrish's abduction was connected to the string of murders.

And given Haigh's anti-Supe tirade he supposedly went on while pouring gas on the other deputy, it seemed highly likely that it was.

“Hey, Derek?” Parrish prompted, voice soft, meek, scared. His scent was nervous, full of anxiety, to the point where Derek was practically choking on it.

He raised his eyes to his partner, noting that the frown was back, his eyes now turned down at the corners, teeth gnawing his bottom lip as his fingers wrung together on his lap. It was obvious that he was scared to ask yet believed that he needed to get it out there, get an answer, even if he didn't like what it was.

“How did I survive?” he questioned lowly, eyes pleading with the other deputy to have the answer. “Why am I still here? And why did Haigh think I'm a Supe?”

The Werewolf smeared a hand down his face before flipping his notepad closed and sliding his pen through the rings at the top. “I have no idea,” he admitted, voice gruff. He scented the air, sorted through the chemosignals his friend was giving off, got straight to his natural scent. But there was nothing to be found, nothing but clean human.

It was possible that maybe Haigh had taken Parrish and was making him pay for being pro-Supe and because he'd caught his accomplice with a smoking gun standing over two dead bodies. He couldn't be charged if there were no witnesses.

But it wouldn't explain how Parrish was able to get out the fire unscathed.

His mind raced through all the possibilities, recalling lessons from his mom on various Supes, reading Hale family tomes when bored growing up, excited flails from a certain human upon discovering a new kind of Supe and what they were capable of. He shoved aside the last source, trying to focus solely on anything he remembered about Supes and fire, trying to distinguish between real and what had actually been made up by folklore.

Dragons were out.

Same with Phoenixes.

Which left his tired brain out of ideas.

He needed sleep. Maybe a three day nap so he could just snooze through this stupid holiday and all that it stood for.

Letting out a sigh, he rubbed at his eyes, mulling over the possibility of calling his sister for the second day in a row and debating if he was up to dealing with her likely ire at being disturbed for her help once more. At least it wouldn't be for work. Surely she'd take pity and be more inclined to assist if it was for a friend. Right?

Depended on her mood really.

Couldn't hurt to try though, especially not for a buddy.

He dropped his hand onto his lap with a loud smack, staring up at his still worried partner. “I have no idea,” he repeated. “But I know someone who might and I swear we're gonna find out what you are and put those assholes behind bars.”

Relief flooded Parrish's scent, a grateful smile forming on his face, shoulders slumping as the tension left his body. “Thanks, Hale.”

Derek just nodded. “D'you know when you're getting released?”

“I think some time later, maybe in the afternoon,” he answered, smoothing his hair down at the back of his head. “There's technically nothing wrong with me, but they wanna keep me here to run some more tests and keep an eye on me.”

The Werewolf nodded more as he rose to his feet, plan formulating in his mind. “I'm gonna talk to my sister, see if she can help. You get some rest, and I'll stop by later, all right?”

“Sounds good.” He offered the other man his hand, Derek taking hold of it before being pulled into a one-armed hug. A couple pats on the back and the two exchanged goodbyes before the older deputy exited the room.

He waved at Lydia when he passed her as she headed where he'd just been, slipping his cell out his pocket as he went. He called for a cab before dialing his sister as he stood outside the main entrance to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, getting no answer. He didn't bother with a voicemail, deciding he'd just try again when he got his Toyota from the sheriff station parking lot.

A cab pulled to a stop and he got in the backseat, telling the driver to head to the station. His mind ran over a million plans and a million back-ups for each one. Get a hold of Laura, get her to help him help Parrish, find evidence to lock Haigh up, find out who Haigh was working with and put them behind bars with him, and put to rest a string of murders rocking their small town.

Maybe he wouldn't have to worry about the upcoming holiday. Seemed like he was gonna be too busy to deal with it.

Laura didn't answer his second call from his Toyota at the sheriff's station. She also didn't answer when he called before having a bite to eat at the twenty-four hour diner on Main—creatively called the Main Street Diner—or when he called after. Which left him with one last option: going to her apartment to face her aggravation at being bothered in person, as well as dealing with her Mate.

'Cause his day hadn't been enough fun so far.

The elevator opened up right outside the door to the Argent apartment, allowing Derek to just step right up and knock. He heard the sound of a male announcing he'd get it, the opening of a door, footsteps heading down the hall, and he mentally swore at who those footsteps belonged to. Yeah, he'd already known he'd have to deal with Argent himself, but he'd figured it would be in passing, a quick wave as he left or some crap like that, not the guy answering the door.

The white wood opened inward, revealing Argent himself, brows raising in surprise before he rearranged his features into a more neutral expression. But his cobalt blue eyes remained analytical and his scent was curious—as well as shower fresh—if not a little suspicious, and it wasn't hard to remember that the guy belonged to the Supernatural Regulation Bureau, the government agency tasked with handling and taking care of Supes who went feral or committed crimes against the Treaty that allowed them to be open without persecution.

Not that the group currently targeting Supes seemed to give a crap about the Treaty.

Still, Argent was one of the Agents who were experts at tracking down Alphas who'd gone rogue and had Bitten people without permission, a job that hit close to home since his wife was one of those victims. Only she'd fought back and the Alpha had ripped her to shreds, barely recognizable by her own husband. At least that's what Derek had been told and what he'd noted in the crime scene photos.

But point remained that the guy was damn good at his job and it put Derek's wolf at unease, even knowing he hadn't done anything wrong and hadn't broken the Treaty or any laws. Probably had to do with the icy fire in his eyes and the way he tended to glare rather than look at someone, the cold nature he possessed paired with his all-black wardrobe, habit of carrying at least two handguns at all times, and his rarely shaven face.

Not that Derek had any room to talk about anyone's lack of shaving.

Didn't mean he understood what his sister saw in the man and why she'd decided to Mate him.

Then again, wasn't like anyone got to choose who their Mate was. Exhibit A: Derek falling for a family friend's son who ended up bailing on him.

“Derek,” Argent greeted him gruffly yet evenly, voice deep but with a rough edge. “Laura's getting changed.” He didn't bother asking why his brother-in-law had shown up randomly on their doorstep at seven am, already knew the reason. Smart man. Then again, even an idiot would've realized that the only times Derek ever stopped by was to talk to Laura or to haul off a drunken and/or depressed Scott McCall who was busy moping about and pining over his ex Allison.

The lack of third heartbeat and Scott scent inside the apartment left only one reason for his visit.

Argent stepped aside, allowing the Werewolf to enter, Derek doing so with a nod of thanks. He glanced around the white walls of the hallway, eyes passing over black and white photos of Laura and Chris, his daughter Allison, the Hale family, but no other Argents. Seemed like Derek wasn't the only one who was estranged from his family.

His eyes came across an open door at the end of the hall, the faint morning light giving him a peek of beige walls and white lace curtains, a framed print of the letter 'A' comprised of a bow and a couple arrows.

Turning, he watched Argent shut the front door, cocking an eyebrow in question. “Allison staying in France for the holidays?”

The older man nodded, folding his arms over his black V-neck tee, bringing attention to a wet patch in between his pecs from where he'd put the shirt on before he was fully dry. “Jackson's apparently gonna travel through the tunnel to join her Christmas Eve.”

Derek's eyebrows raised at that, the statement out of left field. Jackson Whittemore had been another victim of a rogue Alpha, the same one that had Bitten Scott. But rather than the similar event bonding the two then-teenagers, Jackson had pulled away from his social group, deciding being a Supe had made him above everyone else even more than before. His parents had had enough of his behavior and had sent him to an all-male, all-Supe reform school in London. Last Derek had heard, Jackson had graduated with honors and had sent everyone an apology email for his previous treatment of them, a fact that had left Stiles flabbergasted and flailing in Derek's loft. But he didn't think the apology had been well enough to have made Allison and Jackson that close to where they were spending holidays together.

“I'm sure Scott's thrilled about that fact,” the Werewolf deadpanned, recalling stories of how Scott tried to become better friends with Jackson post-Bite, only to be repeatedly rejected. Their relationship had been contentious at best and if Scott found out the other beta was spending time with his Mate, things were just gonna get uglier.

Argent shrugged, wordlessly saying it wasn't his problem and he didn't care either way. “They'll sort things out if and when they want to.”

Translation: Scott was pissed and Argent didn't care.

They were saved from any awkward silences or Derek chewing the guy out over not showing a whole lotta concern over his possible future son-in-law's—and a co-worker's son at that—feelings by Laura making her way over to them. She was dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and a matching tank, her dark hair hanging wet and limp, and Derek internally grimaced at the knowledge that he'd just stopped by after his sister and her Mate had showered together.

Yeah, he wasn't letting his mind go any further down that path or explore the possibilities of what exactly they could've done in said shared shower.

“Der,” she greeted him flatly, a lot like her Mate had, only with a softer voice lacking the same roughness Argent's contained. “What're you doing here?”

“You didn't answer your phone,” he pointed out, turning to face her.

Laura rolled her eyes as she pulled to a stop before them, arms folding over her chest and hip sticking out. “Most people would take that as a hint that they were being ignored.”

Derek frowned in confusion, scenting the annoyance and disbelief she was giving off in waves. “Why were you ignoring me?”

“Because every time you call here lately, it's just to use my intel and resources at the SRB and Chris' Bestiary in order to help solve your next case and I'm willing to bet that's why you're here now.”

He winced, hating how much that was true. But it wasn't anything personal against Laura. He still liked his sisters and he had nothing against his cousin Malia or his dad. He just wasn't in the mood to be social with anyone really, hadn't been for a while.

Two years and three-hundred-sixty-three days to be exact.

But he couldn't admit that she was right, that his only visit was to use her to solve a case. Saying that would only result in him getting kicked out and then left scrambling to try and help his friend, not to mention stuck on his sister's shit-list. He wasn't about to let that happen.

“Not. Technically,” he argued weakly, scratching at his whisker-covered jaw, still wincing.

Laura narrowed her green eyes at him, lips twisting to the side, scent becoming angrier. “Not technically.”

“It's for Parrish.”

“Oh, well in that case,” she rebutted sarcastically, throwing her arms up in the air before letting them fall to a slap against her legs. “Let me also solve Parrish's case.” She put her hands on her hips and intensified the glare she was giving her younger brother.

She was gonna be scary if and when she ever became an Alpha.

But she wasn't one yet and Derek wasn't about to back down, scowling right back at her, his own eyes narrowed. “Parrish is the case,” he spat out, letting his own aggravation seep into his words and his scent. “He managed to walk away completely unscathed after being set on fire by a group of anti-Supe murderers.”

“Group of anti-Supes?” Argent butted in, stepping closer.

Derek turned his head to note the way the Agent's eyes had narrowed analytically once more, his interest piquing at something the Werewolf had said. But the deputy recognized that look, knew it was someone who was intrigued and curious and was gonna do everything in their power to weasel info out of him so they could get involved, regardless of the fact that it wasn't their case—or even legal for them to know anything. It was an expression his ex had worn often whenever his dad or Derek spoke of a long day at work and/or a tough case.

Swallowing hard, he realized he couldn't backtrack, choosing instead to try and cover his tracks. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But that's all I can say about it.”

“Those murders they're talking about on TV,” Laura chimed in, voice meeker than before, arms wrapped around herself to stave off a non-existent chill in the air. “It's by anti-Supes?”

The deputy mentally swore at himself for letting it slip, but let it go. He knew two government agents weren't about to leak anything to the media and he wasn't entirely sure he'd actually said too much. Besides, it would probably help to warn his sister. Not that he thought she wouldn't be able to protect herself, but it could never hurt to be extra vigilant.

“Looks like it.”

Laura breathed out a couple creative curses, hand sweeping through her still damp hair. Argent frowned, eyes distant, most likely mulling over something, a thought or idea sparked by Derek's info.

“If you have anything to share, now would be great,” Derek commented, facing his brother-in-law fully.

The human snapped out of it, shaking his head and putting a phony smile on his face. “No. Sorry.” His heartbeat was jumpy, making it hard to tell if it was a lie or not, but it still managed to pop up a red flag in the Werewolf's mind. “I'm gonna put on some coffee and let you guys discuss Parrish.” With that, he excused himself to the kitchen, leaving the two siblings alone.

His sister sighed audibly, hand to her forehead like she just couldn't believe she'd been given Derek as a brother and Argent as a Mate and her life was just too freaking hard sometimes. The younger Hale didn't say anything, simply licked his lips as he waited for her to speak, knowing if he pushed her at that moment, she'd end up literally pushing him out the door. Despite the five inches of height and several pounds of muscle he had on her, she was still capable of kicking his ass. Laura got vicious when she fought. He was still surprised his hair had grown back in places after too-rough noogies and her yanking the black strands out his head.

She huffed sharply, hands back on her hips, looking back at him with a fierce determination in her eyes. “I'm not helping you,” she said with such finality, Derek almost couldn't argue.

Almost.

“Oh c'mon, Laure!”

“No!” she cut him off, holding a hand up. “I am not enabling you anymore.” She dropped it, placing both hands on her hips as she stared him down. “For three years, three fucking years, I've helped you out and taken a backseat to whatever bullshit is going on between you and Mom because I knew Stiles had to be at the center of it.”

He winced at his ex's name, his wolf whimpering. It wasn't often that the moniker was spoken out loud around him and despite all the time that had passed, it still felt like a wolfsbane-dipped stake of mountain ash stabbing him in the chest every time he heard it.

Maybe it was because he hadn't heard it in a while. He wasn't sure. Didn't matter, still stung like a bitch.

“So I stepped aside,” Laura continued in her same angry tone. “I didn't say anything or interfere or anything, but now it's gotta stop. Stiles most likely isn't ever coming home, but Mom is here to stay and you are killing her by not speaking to her. So if you want any help in trying to solve your Parrish-related mystery, you're gonna have to talk to her.”

Derek turned his head away at the force of her words, eyes coming across a framed photo of Laura surrounded by Lydia and Allison, the two younger girls in their graduation gowns and smiling widely as they were held close by the elder one. He sometimes forgot that Laura had stepped into the role of step-mom, that she'd taken over for a woman who was no longer amongst the living and had done so flawlessly when being a parent was never easy. Clearly she knew what she was talking about when she mentioned how hurt their own mom was at Derek's lack of communication with her.

But as he studied the photo further, all he could see were two more friends his ex had abandoned. Allison had been like a sister to Stiles, mostly through her relationship with Scott and Scott's belief that he and Stiles were long lost brothers who happened to have different parents, to the point where they actually tried hooking their remaining parents up during their junior year of high school. But Stiles had left his pseudo-sister behind without an explanation as well, just like he had everyone else.

Everyone, except Derek's mother.

“I can't tell you, sweetheart. I'm so sorry.”

He closed his eyes at the memory, his eyes growing wet, his chest tight with sadness and loss and betrayal and hurt and anger and rejection and a million things and more. He couldn't handle any of it, didn't want to handle any of it, was done with it all. There was no way he could...no way he could face his mom, talk to her. About anything.

The soft sounds of bare feet against wood floors reached his ears, two hands gently cupping his biceps. His sister's sympathetic scent fill his nose and he held his breath to block it all out.

“Der,” she began softly and he could practically feel her moving her head around to try and catch his eye. “You need to talk to her, even if it is just to get Parrish help. Think of it as my Christmas present to you and yours to her.”

“I'd rather get a gift certificate and a cheesy card,” he muttered obstinately, knowing he sounded like a bratty kid and not caring.

Laura just cupped his chin and turned his head to her, his eyes automatically opening to her sad smile. “Then do it for Parrish,” she prodded. “As much as you wanna act all anti-social and uncaring, I know that deep down it's bullshit and that there's still a huge part of you that is loyal. You won't abandon your friends in their hour of need. It's not in you.”

Derek exhaled long and low, shoulders slumping in defeat. Because she was right. There was no way he was gonna leave Parrish hanging, not when he had the resources to help, not when his partner would do the exact same for him.

“Okay,” he whispered, knowing she'd heard him. Even if he wasn't fully aware of a Werewolf's excellent hearing, he could smell her happiness at his word, feel her rub his biceps in a pleased manner, see the smile that formed on her face.

“Good,” she replied softly, kissing his cheek. “Now, go home and get some sleep. You look like hell.”

He snorted, typical Laura comment really, but figured she was probably right. He'd had an hour nap in an uncomfortable hospital chair and that was all the sleep he'd had for nearly twenty-four hours now. Supe or not, he was exhausted and needed to crash.

She made him promise to call her later to update her on what was going on with Parrish, before ruffing his hair and sending him on his way. Argent called out a goodbye from the kitchen, one he gruffly returned before exiting the apartment. The first part of his plan hadn't worked out, he noted as he hit the button for the elevator. Instead it had been replaced by a completely different step, one he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to handle.

“He's gone, won't be back for a while. But he left you this.”

There was a giant wreath on the back of the elevator cart that he hadn't noticed before, mocking him as the gold doors slid open. He turned on a heel and took the stairs instead.

He really hated this holiday. And he really hated the fact that he was gonna have to deal with this holiday and talk to his mom at the same time.

Fuck his life.

His own apartment building wasn't decorated for the holidays. Not surprising since the place barely bothered putting money into upkeep, letting the gray paint on the walls chip and the mortar crack and he'd honestly lost count of the number of times he'd come home to a “temporarily out of order” sign on the elevator doors. Thing was broken more often than it worked.

Not that it mattered. A few flights of stairs were nothing when compared to Werewolf stamina.

Besides, better an “out of order” sign than a fucking wreath or cheesy paper chain or some other bullshit holiday décor.

His loft was just as barren, completely devoid of any and all decorations, barely containing any actual furniture. A bed in the back corner, nightstand next to it, low bureau of long drawers on the other side. A couch in the middle of what amounted to a living room area, low coffee table before it, couple lone wooden chairs on either end. A large table in front of the floor to ceiling windows that had been the selling point of the place for him. A couple mismatched stools in the kitchen by the breakfast bar, the basic countertop appliances: toaster, microwave, electric kettle. Minimalistic, yes, but he didn't see the point in having anything he didn't need. Bed to sleep on, couch to read on, chairs to eat on, table to do work on. Anything else was superfluous and unnecessary.

Like Christmas decorations.

He showered and changed into a pair of PJ pants, made himself a cup of instant coffee, threw a couple frozen breakfast burritos in the microwave, ignored the ache in his chest at the memory of a repeated argument over whether they could be eaten for meals other than breakfast.

Realized he was procrastinating.

Decided he didn't care and took his time eating.

Further realized he needed to just get it over with because the sooner he called, the sooner he was hanging up and done with the whole thing.

Right. Whatever. Just get it over with. Not for him, not because he missed her or wanted to talk to her or any other bullshit like that, but because Parrish needed help and it seemed like she was their only option.

With a sigh, he picked his cell up from where he'd laid it on the breakfast bar before he'd made his meal, sliding his thumb across the screen to unlock it. And then just stared. Until the screen dimmed and he hit the button for his contacts. And stared again, until the screen dimmed once more and he clicked his mom's name. Then more staring.

And here he'd thought his ex was a master procrastinator. Probably rubbed off on him over the years. Was possible considering the amount of time Stiles had spent at the Hale house while his dad was at work, most of the time bringing Scott, sometimes Lydia and Allison, always bugging Derek and pissing Cora off. Downside of the Hales and Stilinskis being family friends for practically generations, even before Supes were revealed.

Derek never really found out how a family of powerful Werewolves came to be such close allies with one full of humans.

Annnnd he was procrastinating again.

His screen went completely black and he went through the motions of unlocking it once more, this time following through with his intentions and calling his mom.

She answered after three rings, although hers wasn't deliberate like Laura's generally was, instead more likely born of shock. Not that Derek could blame his mom. He hadn't spoken to her in two years and three-hundred-sixty-three days.

“Derek?” she answered cautiously, like she was afraid it was a prank, like she was afraid over the subject matter of the call. And Derek had never heard his mom be afraid before.

“Hey, Mom,” he replied weakly, brow furrowed as he stared at his thumb while it rubbed back and forth over the dark gray countertop.

“How are you?”

He wanted to say he was fine, he was okay, he was doing good, but he couldn't. Because not only was she his mother, she was also his Alpha and would be able to tell if and when he was lying, even over a phone line. But he also didn't wanna tell her the truth about exactly how shitty he'd been feeling the past three years and all the stress he was currently under thanks to the department's recent case and his own partner's mysterious genetic make-up. It would open a whole can of worms, would put her in total Mom Mode, would subject him to a whole lot of fussing and cooing and demands he come over so she can make it all better, like he was a four-year-old with a skinned knee she could patch up with magical kisses.

Yeah, he really didn't need her concern right now. He didn't wanna make her worry over him, feel bad for her only son, or—assuming she even felt any remorse over her actions in the first place—worsen her guilt.

“Still alive,” he told her, figuring it was as good a response as anything, especially considering the recent happenings in their town.

His mom made a humming noise down the line, showing that she understood the implication behind the words, if not the full meaning over his refusal to give a true answer. “I heard about the killings,” she informed him, voice thick with emotion. “John even asked me about it this past Sunday when he stopped by for lunch.”

Derek wasn't sure what part of her statement was more surprising: the use of his boss' first name—although that wasn't really something to be shocked about, considering how far back the two of them went and how familiar they were with each other—or the fact that the sheriff still kept in touch with the family of his missing son's ex.

Then again, it wasn't like the entire Stilinski clan had dumped the entire Hale Pack. Just Stiles bailing on Derek. And besides, the elder Stilinski still kept in contact with Derek and was perfectly companionable with him, including outside of work. Made sense that the sheriff of Beacon County would remain on good terms with the most powerful Alpha in that same area, especially when said Alpha was an old friend.

“Is that what you're calling me about?”

Smearing a hand over his face, Derek wondered when the hell he'd started using people like that, when he'd become such a predictable asshole that even his mom knew he was calling for info rather than a chat. Then again, it wasn't like he'd been ringing her up all that much lately—or at all—so clearly he wasn't calling to just say he loved her or to catch up. And he most definitely wouldn't call out of nowhere after three years of zero contact just because.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, dropping his hand with a smack on the counter. “Sorta. It's kinda related.” He winced at how awkward he sounded before plowing ahead. “My partner, Parrish, was taken by the group we believe is behind all these murders and then trapped inside a car and set on fire.”

His mom gasped on the other end of the line and he quickly added on to his statement.

“He's fine,” he rushed out. “Walked away completely unscathed, no burns, no anything.”

“Okay,” she replied slowly, almost absently, like it was an automated response. “But why does that require you to call me?” It wasn't asked maliciously or with any sort of anger or disgust that her child would dare bother her with something so trivial and beneath her. It was more of a curiosity and a confusion regarding her own involvement and exactly what she would have to do with his partner.

The answer was a resounding “not much”, but he kept that to himself, instead just stating a simple “he's human”, followed by a conceding “or at least we thought he was.”

“I see,” his mom stated contemplatively and he could practically see the wheels churning in her head down the line. He pictured her sitting there with her legs crossed, foot moving up and down as she thought, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, fingernail tapping on the nearest hard surface. “And you need me to help you two figure out exactly how that was possible and what that makes Parrish.” Statement, not a question, from over two decades of knowing Derek and his roundabout ways of requesting things.

Old habits, he figured.

Scratching at his whisker-covered jaw, he nodded, momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Yeah. Please.”

She let out a thoughtful hum, before sighing softly in a maternal “the things I do for my kids” sort of way and something inside Derek's chest clenched. Because he'd missed that noise, missed her exasperated yet fond sighs at her children's latest shenanigans, missed the way she'd glare in disapproval before smiling tenderly at them. He just missed his mom.

And as much as it was his own fault, it was also hers.

“I'm afraid I can't really help him over the phone,” she stated apologetically and he could perfectly picture the sad twist of her lips and her blue eyes turning down at the corners. “It'd be better if I met him in person.”

Derek inhaled shakily, the air leaving in a long, harsh exhale. He rubbed at his forehead as though he could stave off the headache that he felt forming from a combo of fatigue and stress. “Right,” he grumbled, eyes closing. He felt the despair take over, felt hopeless and that all was lost because she clearly couldn't help. But a small, more optimistic part of him was still there, pointing out that she just said she couldn't help over the phone.

Hope wasn't completely gone.

“I'm free later on this afternoon if you two wanna stop by and we can chat.”

His lids popped open at that, eyebrow cocking in confusion. “'You two'?” he repeated her words, another feeling of dread causing his stomach to twist and the burritos he'd just consumed go for a tumble. Only this time, it wasn't worry over not getting any help for his friend. This time, it was worry over how he'd be obtaining said help.

“Yes, 'you two',” she reiterated, voice stern, reminding him that she was Head Alpha of Beacon County—not to mention also his mother—and what she said was law. “My help doesn't come for free. Surely, you hadn't forgotten that over the past couple years.”

He actually had, but he wasn't gonna admit it.

Although really by not responding, he was admitting it in a way.

At least by keeping silent he was also keeping his pride partially intact.

“I'll talk with your friend and see if I can help him if,” she began then paused, more than likely holding a finger up the way she always did when he was a kid and was given some sort of conditional reward for doing his chores or his homework or leaving his younger sister and cousin alone. “If you come along and you and I have a talk of our own.”

Shit.

Derek scrunched up his features and rubbed at his forehead again, realizing he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, he'd promised his friend that he'd help him figure himself out, that he'd find out what exactly he was and how he'd been able to survive being set on fire.

On the other hand, he'd have to talk with his mom, a woman he'd been avoiding for nearly three years after she'd committed what felt like the ultimate betrayal.

Still felt like, really.

Because what she'd done was pretty much unforgivable, and despite his wolf's constant feeling of being lost without its Alpha, Derek wasn't ready to look past it and repair things with his mom.

The fact that his Mate was also gone wasn't helping him feel any more grounded and in control. Full moons had become a total nightmare and were only getting worse.

A quick glance at the calendar fixed on the side of his fridge showed that one was coming up within the next few days. Great. Because he wasn't having enough fun lately.

“Derek? You still there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” he muttered down the line on automatic, barely even aware that he was speaking, much less what he was saying. He was too lost in thought about how he just...couldn't do it. He couldn't talk to his mom. He couldn't be in that house and look her in the face without remembering what had happened the last time he'd done either of those things and the words she'd stated and the letter she'd given him and...

“He's gone, won't be back for a while.”

Shit.

But worse than the dread of having to face his mom again after so long was the anxiety over letting his friend down. Without regular interactions with his Alpha, he was practically an Omega, barely keeping any ties to his old Pack. But he'd been doing all right because he had a new, somewhat unconventional one at the station, with the sheriff as Acting Alpha and Parrish, Lahey, and Boyd as his Packmates. Hell, even Lydia felt more like Pack in recent times than his actual sisters.

So to disappoint Parrish by breaking a promise and not getting him the help and advice he was so desperate for, it was like a mountain ash stake through Derek's heart.

It was like a betrayal.

And he'd been at the receiving end of someone's treachery to such an intense degree that he never wanted to inflict that upon anyone.

Which meant...he'd have to talk to his mom. Face to face.

For Parrish.

“Okay,” he breathed out, clearing his throat before continuing at a more normal volume. “Okay. We'll both be there.”

“Good” was her simple response but he could still hear the smile in that one syllable.

They made arrangements for a time when Derek and Parrish should go over, exchanging goodbyes immediately after. Derek stared at his phone for a long time, watching his screen dim then go black. In the back of his mind, he vaguely registered the fact that he didn't really have an actual lock screen pic, that the photo he used was a shot of nothing but black. He'd been in such a rush to get rid of his old one that he just didn't care, didn't even want a pic really.

The last pic he'd had as a lock screen someone else had put there for him.

“You can't not have a lock screen, dude. It's just not right. Now smile, Sour Wolf, and act like you love me.”

What followed had been a Stiles-directed selfie photoshoot with Derek's phone, the two of them in his bed wearing nothing but sheets and smiles—and a very noticeable bite mark adorning the side of Stiles' throat. And in the end, Derek had chosen a pic that he himself had taken of the two of them kissing and the confused and surprised look on his then-boyfriend's face, corners of his lips curved up in a smile as the Werewolf let out a rumble of satisfaction—not that that part was evident in the pic but they knew it was happening and that's all that mattered.

Leaving his phone on the counter, Derek rose to his feet and padded over to his bed, ready to crash. But rather than laying down, he snatched up a pillow and the top sheet, dragging them over to the couch where he finally flopped down to sleep.

He was out almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Chapter Text

The sounds Stiles was making were practically pornographic. Loud moans as his mouth hung open, eyes rolling to the back of his head as the lids slid down, pants leaving him rather than exhales. His entire body was slack, sinking into Derek's mattress, the Werewolf's name leaving him like a swear and a praise rolled into one.

“Ah fuck,” the human gasped out before groaning, pulling himself closer to the larger male, burrowing his head into Derek's chest as they lay side-by-side. His fingers wrapped around the other man's biceps, the grip alternating between tight and loose, letting out a shuddering breath against the Werewolf's bare skin. “God, your hands are magic.”

A chuckle gusted out of Derek, the air barely ruffling Stiles' buzzed hair. It wasn't how he expected his evening to go, but there he was, half-naked in bed with a guy he'd barely begun dating.

Not that it mattered. He'd known Stiles pretty much for the kid's entire life and had been in love with him for about a year and a half now.

Or at least aware that he was in love with him.

Whatever. Point was that it wasn't how Derek had planned out his evening. But really, he should've known that when it came to Stiles, it was sometimes better not to plan things out. Because the human had randomly showed up at the doorstep of Derek's loft with his special pillow under his right arm, backpack slung over the opposite shoulder, his wrist still in a brace where it'd been sprained during his recent wreck. The Werewolf had questioned both the younger man's appearance and his belongings, Stiles smirking as he explained that his dad was working the overnight shift, which clearly meant sleepover.

A small disagreement had broken out, Derek not wanting to get on the elder Stilinski's bad side, reasoning that he wanted to remain on good terms with his new boss. He didn't mention the fact that he also didn't wanna piss off his future father-in-law by doing anything inappropriate or impermissible with Stiles, but the Werewolf couldn't explain that. Not without throwing out the M-word and there was no way they were ready for that stage, not when half their couple was human. Sure, they had their own “soul mate” terms, married couples using the phrase “the One” often enough. But from what Derek had witnessed, it wasn't quite the same for a Supe, a Mate being something more intense, more meaningful, more instinctual.

Soul mates were realized after a long period of dating and sometimes, even if the couple were “meant to be”, they still broke up. For humans, “the One” no longer meant “forever”, not with divorce rates as high as they were these days.

Yet for a Supe, it was a near instantaneous realization upon finding one's Mate. Sure, they may not fully recognize what the pull towards that certain person was, why they felt the need to give in to every whim, the need to protect, the need to be near them constantly, but the epiphany would come soon after. Derek was one of those who didn't fully understand why this gangly kid with too many moles and too much talking caught his attention so much or why he always felt the need to watch over him more than his own sister or cousin or whoever else. He tried to reason that it was just because Stiles was human and therefore breakable, but that didn't explain why he didn't feel the same compulsion towards a then-human Scott.

It wasn't until Laura had made a teasing remark about Derek moping over his Mate having head home that it finally clicked into place for him.

Which, contrary to most romance novels and movies, did not lead to a huge love confession or an immediate courtship. Because his Mate was sixteen and underage by human laws and standards and he was planning on working for his Mate's father. Better not to get on the sheriff's bad side by committing statutory rape.

It wasn't until Stiles' recent car accident—and the sheriff's pushing—that Derek finally confessed to feelings that went beyond an affection for a family friend's kid.

But that still didn't mean he was ready to use the “M-word” with his human boyfriend, content to keep it to strictly human terms and a strictly human pace. They had plenty time to reach the point where the “M-word” and “forever-word” and “soul mate-word” could all be used.

Didn't help his need and compulsion to give in to Stiles' wishes, which that evening had been a sleepover.

And later on, after struggling to get comfy in bed, included Derek taking advantage of his Werewolf abilities and draining the pain from his still sore Mate.

Apparently he was doing a damn good job, considering the porn soundtrack leaving the younger man's lips.

Definitely not helping Derek's self-imposed rule of no sexual contact.

It wasn't long before the black lines in his arm faded and he was left with a pliant teenager trying to burrow his way into his chest. Derek chuckled in amusement once again, wrapping his arms tighter around his boyfriend, wolf making contented noises in the back of his mind.

“Better?” he questioned, rubbing his nose against the scratchy fuzz of Stiles' buzzed hair, feeling him nod against him.

“Tha' was fuggin' magic,” the human drawled, lifting his head to look up at the other male. A lazy smile was on his face, eyes half lidded, and the warm smell of contentment rolled off him in citrusy waves.

The Werewolf smirked back, moving his hand to cup the younger man's cheek, making his grin widen. The bruises had faded to an ugly yellow, the gash near his left temple nothing more than a red line with some stitches Stiles continuously poked at, his injuries healing up well. But Stiles still smiled widely, didn't act like the minor aches bothered him anymore—which they probably didn't, considering the pain drain he'd just had—acted like everything was fine and hunky-dory and that all was well with him, solely because he was in the bed with Derek.

And to think, Derek had nearly lost him, had nearly completely lost his opportunity to hold Stiles close, to see that smile and those sparkling whiskey eyes, to inhale his scent in his sheets, to kiss his lips...

He surged forward, pressing their lips together, tenderly and still mindful of the scab on the bottom one. Stiles reacted the same way he always did whenever Derek kissed him: his eyes went wide as his lips pursed, his brow furrowing to match the confusion in his scent, joined quickly by joy and happiness and shock.

Pulling away, Derek frowned with his own sense of puzzlement, scenting as Stiles' grew, his brow scrunching up further. Green eyes searched whiskey ones, trying to find a clue as to why his boyfriend always reacted that way, only to come up with nothing. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?” Stiles asked back, slinging a leg over both of Derek's in an attempt to get closer.

The Werewolf moved his hand from the teen's face to his hip to hold him still, pinning him with a serious look. “Get so surprised and confused whenever I kiss you.”

“Oh.” Splotches of dark pink formed on his cheeks, his version of blushing, his scent now embarrassed and awkward before shifting to something more bitter and resentful. His eyes flicked down, focused somewhere between their bare chests, refusing to make eye contact.

Shit. That wasn't Derek's intention. He didn't mean to upset his Mate, didn't want him upset for any reason. On instinct, he rubbed his nose against the younger man's in an act of comfort, nuzzling him gently.

“I just,” he started then stopped, huffed, see-sawed his head as much as he could while still laying it on his pillow. “I don't get why you wanna do it.”

The older man's confusion grew, puzzled frown turned into a bewildered scowl. “You don't get why I wanna kiss my boyfriend?” he deadpanned, trying to make sure he had it right. Because the entire thing sounded completely insane to him and he was honestly having a hard time following Stiles' train of thought.

Not that Stiles himself could follow those. Adderall could only do so much.

“No, I get that,” the human clarified, still not making eye contact, braced hand absently running a finger up and down Derek's spine. “What I don't get is why you'd want me as your boyfriend.”

Okay, they'd clearly made a left turn at Albuquerque instead of a right because Derek was now beyond lost. He opened his mouth to say as much, only to be cut off.

“I mean, I'm fuckin' pathetic and weak and puny,” he stated, heart rate flat, meaning he was completely believing what he was saying. “I don't understand why you'd wanna be with someone so klutzy, so fragile, so feeble, so—”

“Human,” Derek finished for him, finally getting the point of what his Mate was trying to make.

Stiles nodded as he let out a shaky sigh, eyes still trained downward, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Yeah.”

He wanted to hit the guy, to roar in his face, to call him an idiot and a dumbass and a moron and question his sanity on every level. But he knew none of those things would be all that productive, not to mention would also prove Stiles' point because why would Derek wanna be with a dumbass like him?

So instead, he cupped his Mate's chin and tilted his head up, forcing him to make eye contact. “Your being human is one of my favorite things about you,” he answered honestly, voice a harsh whisper yet full of so much weight they could break apart either one of them. “You help keep me human, stop me from letting my wolf gain too much control.” He moved his hand back to Stiles' cheek, thumb stroking his skin. “And I love that you're weaker than me because then I get to protect you, watch over you, keep you safe.”

“But you shouldn't have to,” Stiles argued, jaw working, eyes watering as they flipped down again, scent still that bitter smell of self-hatred and self-deprecation.

“But I want to,” he argued back, wrapping his arms around his Mate and hauling him in close, working a leg between the other man's two. “Stiles, I'm a Werewolf. At times, I'm more animal than human and the animal part of me likes taking care of what's his, which includes you. That's why Packs are so important to us, so we can protect one another. You being human and needing my protection is just another reason why you're perfect for me.”

Stiles looked up at that, sniffing, whiskey eyes flicking back and forth between Derek's green ones as they searched for something the Werewolf didn't know. But he didn't argue, didn't disagree, didn't call him on any nonexistent bullshit. Instead, he just burrowed his head in Derek's chest once more, wrapping his arms around the older man's torso and hugging him tight. The older man simply returned the tight embrace, kissing the top of his buzzed head. The action made Stiles press against him more, fingers clinging to the bare skin of the older man's back, clutching desperately at him.

Derek snorted internally, rubbing at his Mate's back and keeping his lips against the top of his head. As if he'd really ever let Stiles go.

The alarm tone on his phone managed not only to wake Derek up, but also confuse him. After all, it was his day off. Why the hell would he need an alarm or to get up at a certain time?

Sitting up, he scrubbed at his face, trying to also scrub away the remnants of his flashback dream. The grogginess eventually lifted and his clear mind was able to provide him with an explanation for his wake-up.

He and Parrish were meeting up with his mom.

Shit.

He groaned as he flopped back on the couch, covering his face with his hands. God, he could think of a thousand things he'd rather do. But he'd made a promise and it wasn't like he had anything else to actually do on his day off. Which, really, he didn't even fucking want. Seemed really stupid and selfish to not go to work when they were in the middle of such a major case. One that was now making national headlines.

Worst time ever for a day off in his opinion.

A quick check of his phone showed no missed texts or phone calls, meaning no new victims. A coil of tension relaxed slightly, no news being good news at that point, only for it to tighten back up at the realization that it could be possible that one just hadn't been found yet. Then again, he highly doubted Lydia wouldn't have slipped into a trance and found the body for them. Didn't matter how exhausted she was or what else was going on in her life, when her Banshee powers kicked in, they kicked in.

He shoved all those thoughts aside, along with his blanket, before shuffling his way to the shower. If something happened, he'd hear about it. No use worrying about that, not when he had other things to stress over at that moment.

Still. Not having time off that day would've been nice.

“How'd you even know I'd be here?”

Derek cocked an eyebrow at Lydia's question, hand paused where he was holding a paper cup of her favorite raspberry white chocolate mocha in offer.

Parrish snorted from his position on the hospital bed, stalling his own hand as he filled out his discharge papers on the rolling table. “Really, Lyds?” he asked dubiously, corner of his lips curved up in amusement.

She rolled her green eyes as she smacked her lips apart then pursed them, arms folding over her chest and causing the dog tags—Parrish's dog tags, his mind corrected—she wore around her neck to jingle. Derek noted how she was in the same clothes as yesterday, meaning she hadn't even gone home yet. Not really much of a surprise. He was the same way when Stiles was staying there after his accident.

“Whatever,” she huffed, dismissing both his expression and Parrish's commentary with a single word. Her own expression shifted to something more grateful as she accepted the proffered drink, giving Derek a smile of thanks and snapping open the lid to blow on it.

Parrish chuckled as he shook his head, returning to his paperwork. The Werewolf set the other deputy's coffee next to the guy's right hand before placing on the bed a duffel he'd grabbed from Parrish's apartment and filled with a change of clothes and a couple toiletries he'd noticed on the bathroom counter. He acknowledged the thanks he was given with a head bob before taking his dark roast coffee out the paper tray he'd been given and trashing the carrier.

“You seriously went to Dunkin Donuts and didn't get us any donuts?” the leaner male questioned, same dubious tone he'd use with Lydia, only less amused.

Derek shrugged a shoulder as he walked over to the side wall and leaned back against it, crossing his jean-covered ankles. “Wasn't sure if you guys had eaten yet.”

“Doesn't matter. There's always room for donuts.”

Lydia nodded in agreement, gingerly sipping her hot drink, and the Werewolf just rolled his eyes. “I'll remember that for next time,” he grumbled, taking a gulp of his own drink before changing the subject. “When are you allowed to leave?”

“They said any time I was ready, but I think that's just a polite way of saying 'get out so we can use this room for someone who actually has something wrong with them',” Parrish stated with a vaguely mocking tone, scribbling his signature at the bottom of the page. “You talk to your sister?”

Derek breathed out a “yeah”, fiddling with the lid of his cup as he continued. “She couldn't help, but my mom said she could. We gotta stop by there after you're released so she can talk with you and get a better idea of what's going on.”

Parrish nodded, exhaling shakily as he put the pen down on the table. Nerves lit up his scent as he smoothed down his hair at the back of his head, forcing his lips to curve up at the corners in a faux-easygoing smile. Lydia didn't hesitate to walk over, heels clicking, and wrap an arm around his shoulders, hand rubbing up and down his back in soothing motions. It seemed to work, the anxiety leaving his scent and his muscles relaxing, his body automatically leaning towards her.

“Sounds good,” he murmured, giving Derek a small grin that was more genuine. “Thanks, man.”

The Werewolf just shrugged it off, not letting anyone know exactly what it cost him to arrange it all. His pride had taken enough hits the previous night. He didn't need their pity on top of it.

“I should probably head home and let my mom actually see that I'm alive,” Lydia stated, fingers absently scratching Parrish's scalp as she turned to look down at him. “Call me later and let me know what's going on.”

“I will,” the deputy promised, peering up at her with a lazy grin and sparkling eyes.

The smirk was returned as she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, Derek immediately ducking his head and focusing his attention on the white linoleum floor and his contrasting black boots. He didn't look back up until he heard them part, Lydia stepping over to him with her lips twisted to the side in annoyance.

“You owe me donuts,” she said with a glare, finger pointed to him in warning. He saluted her then received a kiss to the cheek, the two of them exchanging goodbyes before she headed off, giving one last wave and smile to Parrish.

Derek aimed a raised eyebrow at his partner, not bothering to hide the amused smirk curling up the corner of his lips. “Not like that, huh?” he mocked with the other man's words from a previous day, relishing the embarrassed flush on Parrish's cheeks and the bitterness that flooded his scent with the emotion.

The leaner male rubbed at the back of his hair, shrugging awkwardly as he rose to his feet. “Nearly dying puts a lot in perspective,” he mumbled, Derek's wolf-hearing able to pick it up anyway. Parrish stood by the bed with his back to the other man, unzipping the duffel that had been brought for him. “Dancing around each other like that only wasted time and was pointless as hell. Why bother denying things or put off what felt pretty inevitable? Just seemed stupid when compared to the fact that I nearly died and we almost lost each other. Permanently.”

The Werewolf nodded as he sipped his coffee, fully understanding what his partner was saying, the sheriff's voice ringing loud and clear in his head.

“Aw, hell, son, just ask the boy out already, for the love of God and all of our sanities.”

Thinking of that moment when the sheriff had practically ordered Derek to ask his son out, along with being in a room similar to one where he'd finally confessed his feelings to his ex, caused his chest to get tighter, and he ducked his head, trying to hide the way his vision was blurring and his brow was furrowing. He didn't want his friend to think he was upset over his new relationship or have his suddenly down mood be misinterpreted to mean that he'd been hoping to get with Lydia and was now sad he'd missed his shot. Because no. He adored her and admired the shit out of her and enjoyed her company, but never in any capacity beyond a friendship.

But she was great for Parrish, a fiery redhead that would bring him out of his Eagle Scout demeanor and maybe even show him that he didn't have to be nice and polite all the time. She'd also be able to help him transition from being human to being a Supe, having been through the same exact thing five years or so before. She'd be able to relate on a level most other females wouldn't be able to.

And for Lydia, she got a good male who wasn't preoccupied with himself or care more about his own image than her, a guy who wasn't just using her for his own advantages. She'd get a guy who cared about Lydia, the real Lydia. She wouldn't have to dumb herself down to make her boyfriend happy with his status as the dominant person in their relationship, wouldn't have to hide her powers, wouldn't have to dull any part of her sparkling personality. She could just be her, Parrish could be himself, and they'd both be happier and better off for it.

“You two make sense,” he found himself muttering, scratching his jaw as he continued staring at the floor. “Maybe not to an outsider or anyone who doesn't really know you guys, but you do.”

He looked up to see Parrish now facing him, duffel strap slung over his shoulder, eyebrows slightly creased in worry and curiosity. “So you're okay with us dating? You don't have a problem with your partner dating your best friend?”

Derek's own eyebrows shot up in shock before he quickly schooled his features, momentarily surprised at the statement of someone calling Lydia his best friend. But when he thought about it, it made sense. He spent more time with her than anyone else—outside of work—talked to her more than his own family. Guess he'd never really thought about exactly how much time he'd shared with her or how close he'd gotten to her. Probably ignoring it really, since he'd previously just associated her with Stiles, but he'd managed to form his own relationship with her without even being aware of it.

He wondered if he'd been unaware because he was in some form of denial about forming said relationship with her or if he'd just been too preoccupied with all the memories she'd unknowingly brought along with her. Maybe he'd just been busy trying to not think of how she'd been Stiles' best female friend and how that's all she'd ever be to Derek in his eyes.

Obviously he'd been wrong. And he felt kinda dumb for not realizing it sooner.

A small smile formed on his face as he met his partner—his best guy friend's eyes, stepping over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Absolutely zero problems,” he stated honestly. “But just so you're aware, you hurt her, and I'll rip your throat out. With my teeth.” He flashed his gold eyes at the other man to show how serious he was, still smirking.

Parrish didn't back down, just tilted his chin up as his own eyes narrowed, flickering orange momentarily. “I'm not gonna hurt her,” he retorted, voice hard, heartbeat steady.

“I know.” He patted his friend's shoulder before stepping back. “Now get changed so we can get out of this place. The disinfectant smell is driving my nose insane.”

The leaner male chuckled, adjusting the falling strap of his duffel. “Do we have time to grab some donuts before we have to meet up with your mom?”

Derek snorted as he shoved his partner towards the bathroom. “Like I'd take you to get donuts and not bring Lydia. She'd kick our asses just for discussing it.”

Parrish see-sawed his head in consideration before nodding in agreement and stepping into the en suite, shutting the door behind himself. “Guess we just gotta find someone for you to date so we can double at a Dunkin Donuts.”

The Werewolf paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth, lips parted, body freezing, wolf growling in his head. Nope. Never in a million fucking years. Maybe if Stiles randomly showed back up...

Right. Like that'd happen. Seemed as likely as Derek dating someone else.

“Parrish,” he started, recovering from the shock. “Remind me to explain 'Mates' to you some time.”

He ended up explaining Mates over some burgers and fries at the Main Street Diner, Derek ordering curly fries on automatic despite his preference for the thick cut ones. Parrish took it all in with minimum interruptions, brow creased in concentration the entire time, seeming lost in thought.

They also discussed their upcoming chat with Derek's mom, deciding what information needed to be kept to themselves due to the fact that Parrish's ordeal was part of an ongoing investigation. They both agreed to leave names out as well as his abduction from the hospital, agreeing to keep to the basics.

It was less than two hours after leaving the hospital and Derek was standing in front of the door of his childhood home, staring at a large wreath decorated with pine cones and red berries that hung over the burgundy painted wood. He'd always loved the place, loved its location in the middle of the Preserve, loved how the huge yard was surrounded by tall trees, loved the rustic look of it and the wraparound porch. He remembered spending hours on the porch swing at the front, doing homework, reading, getting away from his sisters. He remembered hanging on the Adirondack chairs in the back with his family during cookouts and summer parties. He remembered rolling around in the grass and running through the woods in his wolf form during full moons, his siblings by his side, his parents—with their ability to control the shift—and the Stilinskis on the porch having drinks. Scott would later join their runs after he was Bitten, Stiles having already been invited to the runs but usually hanging in the backyard and crashing close to midnight. At least when he was a kid. As a teen, he was able to run through the woods—albeit much slower—and it took Derek more time than he cared to admit that he never realized that he'd been keeping pace with the human.

Mate thing he figured.

He also never realized how much he missed the Hale house. Sure, he'd moved out shortly after finishing his freshman year at a nearby college, but he'd still stop by his family's home often. He'd barely make it two days before he was walking through the front door asking his mom what was for dinner and getting a smack to the back of his hand with a wooden spoon for sneaking tastes. He'd never really had a chance to miss the place before, but now that he'd gone three years without seeing it in person, it only hit him at that moment how big a gap he'd had in his heart that the home used to occupy.

Homesick for a place that no longer felt like home.

Parrish grumbled on his right about feeling under-dressed in his jeans and UIC hoodie brought Derek back to reality, reminding him why he was returning to a place he'd been avoiding for so long. And why he'd been avoiding it. Made for a lonely existence, yeah, but he was fine with it. At least he told himself he was fine with it. The attachments he'd apparently formed to Parrish and Lydia proved otherwise. As did his wolf, which was wagging its tail happily as the human part of him scented the familiar smells of home and family and Alpha.

More commonly referred to as “Mom”.

Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Derek raised his fist to knock on the door, only to have it open before he got the chance to.

His mom stood on the other side of the threshold, wearing a half-sleeve flowy dress in deep blues, greens, and magentas, black leather boots covering her shins and feet, dark hair hanging loose down to her shoulders. Her scent was masked, a rare skill she possessed that made Derek jealous at times growing up, but her eyes were brighter than usual due to unshed tears and there was a shakiness to her smile that gave her away. She reached out towards her son but stopped her hand halfway, forcing it back down to her side and widening her faux-smile.

“Hello, Derek,” she greeted him with a thick voice, a cheeriness to her tone that barely managed to cover the other emotions she was trying so hard to hide: sadness, apprehension, concern, guilt. But Derek knew they were there, knew the reasons behind each one. He just had the grace to not mentioned any of it.

Good manners had been instilled in him by her after all.

He gave her a flat “Mom” in reply, folding his arms over his chest in a closed-off manner. He kept his features emotionless, cursed his inability to mask his scent the way she could. But as stoic as he remained on the inside, his wolf was losing its shit, tail thumping wildly, rolling over to show its belly, whining and whimpering to get closer to its Alpha, to submit and get back on her good graces.

Not that Derek or his wolf were the ones that had any sort of making up to do. The exact opposite really. But in the hierarchy of the Pack, Derek was lower down and therefore the one who constantly needed to kiss the other's ass. In their family, however, the mother was the one guilty of a wrong-doing, the one that had to repair their damaged relationship.

He supposed that was why she insisted on Derek joining Parrish, why she declared they needed to talk themselves: to begin the process of fixing what had been broken between them. He hadn't been entirely sure how he'd felt about that really, had believed himself to be content with his loneliness and his loose connection to his Pack. Yet standing there with her, inhaling her scent and the scents of home, he was no longer certain of just how okay he'd been with not having any contact with his mom and Alpha.

Talking with her would be a good thing, he reasoned. Yeah, there was no way they could go back to the exact same relationship that they'd had before. It just wasn't possible, not with the hurt that had been caused and the scars Derek still wore—as well as the unhealed wounds inflicted upon him by Stiles' sudden departure. But maybe hashing things out would allow him a small amount of closure of sorts—at least when it came to his mom—and help him create a more healthy way of living, one where he wasn't so oblivious to the formation of friendships. He was already so freaking lost without his Mate, his Anchor. Not having his Alpha to help guide him was compounding his confusion and sense of disorientation. Maybe their talk that day would help rebuild the bridge that had been burned down between them and help him feel less adrift in life.

His mom's grin faltered slightly at his less than enthusiastic greeting, before she turned her attention to the other male, smile more genuine now. “You must be Parrish,” she deduced, voice warm and friendly, hands clasped in front of her, looking very prim and proper. Derek wanted to snort. Not that his mom wasn't proper or ladylike, because she was. She was incredibly well-mannered and respectful. She just tended to let her wild side show more often than not, her ways of teaching as both a mother and an Alpha less conventional than others. Hell, she was wearing biker boots with a shift dress in winter. Werewolf metabolism and high body temp aside, that was still not normal.

“Please, call me Jordan, ma'am,” Parrish replied, extending a hand towards her in greeting. “It's a pleasure to meet such a powerful Alpha of your nature.”

The Alpha in question waved off the compliment before shaking the offered hand. “I'll call you Jordan if you call me Talia, all right? There're no formalities in this house.” Her grin widened, eyes flashing red so quickly Derek wasn't entirely sure he hadn't imagined it.

“Yes, ma—err, Talia.” The leaner male cleared his throat awkwardly as their hands released their grip on one another, hooking his thumbs on the back pockets of his jeans.

She breathed out a chuckle, smirking, before stepping aside and waving them in with a sweep of the arm. “Come on in, boys,” she instructed. “I have a friend over, another Alpha named Satomi, and she'll be able to further help.”

“Thank you,” Parrish replied genuinely, stepping inside the house and following her directions into the living room on the left.

Derek entered the home after him, nose bombarded by all the familiar scents of his parents, his sisters—Cora's scent more prevalent since she was home from college for winter break and Laura had her own place—his cousin, Malia, and her father, Peter. There was another Werewolf scent he wasn't too familiar with but vaguely recognized from somewhere in his past, most likely the other Alpha his mom had just mentioned, along with the smells of the breakfast she'd made earlier and the bitter coffee she preferred. Just like he did.

He made to follow his partner into the living room, only to be stopped with a hand on his chest. His eyes followed the length of the slender arm it belonged to until they came to his mom's face, noting the serious expression she wore.

“We'll talk after we've helped your friend,” she stated bossily, eyes going red for a moment to show him how serious her decision was. Derek could do nothing but nod once before joining his friend in the other room.

Parrish was shaking the hand of a short, rotund Asian woman, her black hair in a bun at the back of her head. The smile she wore deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, dark eyes full of the wisdom that only came from living a long life. Her black cardigan hung around the flat black shoes she wore, both items matching the loose slacks and peasant top she wore, and if Derek hadn't known any better, he'd swear she was nothing more than someone's sweet old grandmother.

Luckily for him, he did know better, so that when those dark eyes turned on him, he tilted his head to the side in a Werewolf sign of respect towards another Alpha.

She smiled pleasantly at him, shuffling around the coffee table to stand before him, hand cupping the side of his neck to show his greeting was acknowledged and appreciated. “It's nice to see you again, Derek, although giving the growth spurt you went through, it's a little harder to actually see you.” She chuckled as she tilted her head up to get a better look at him, Derek unable to help the curve of his lips as he peered down at her. She was even smaller up close, her head barely reaching his shoulders, and he felt the instinctual need to protect her.

Although he highly doubted she'd need it. He'd grown up hearing stories of the great and powerful Satomi-sama, how she'd been Bitten and managed to find a way to tame her wolf on by herself, how she was her own Anchor, how she taught Talia Hale how to be a good Alpha, how she helped defeat a Nogitsune. She'd become such a legend in the Hale house that at times, Derek forgot she wasn't fictional, that she wasn't some sort of superhero out of a comic book or movie. She was real and alive and had actually done all those things and was still kicking ass to that day.

When necessary, of course. As a Buddhist, she chose the path of least resistance and would only fight when one-hundred percent life-savingly essential.

Just made Derek respect her even more.

Her lips twisted to the side in a wry smile, almond eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Do you even remember me? You were so young last time I was here?”

Derek searched his mind, remembered running through with leaves in his hair and dirt on his clothes, finding the two female Alphas at the kitchen table drinking something warm that made his nose scrunch up at the unpleasant scent. And, as if he'd conjured up the smell, it hit him, that same bitter, rotting, nauseating smell that had his five-year-old self running back outside screaming about the evil scent being after him.

“I remember the tea,” he admitted, nose wrinkled as his eyes drifting to the coffee table, discovering two china cups half-full of a burnt orange liquid. That godawful tea.

She chuckled, patting his bicep through his gray henley. “Ah, Koinu,” she stated fondly, more amused than offended that he didn't enjoy her tea. “That's reishi and it's very good for you. It'd help you a lot to drink it.”

“I'll stick to multi-vitamins,” he deadpanned, still glaring at the mentioned drink with a wrinkled nose.

She chuckled again, not bothering to point out that they both knew he wasn't taking them and that he didn't really need to. In return, he didn't alert her to the fact that she didn't need reishi tea for any sort of health benefits. At least none that he was aware of.

Talia offered to get her guests some coffee, boots clicking and dress swishing as she headed to the kitchen. Derek took the opportunity to look around the room, noting how it hadn't changed all that much. The threshold to the hall still boasted pine doors with glass squares filling the entire thing. The hardwood floors were still the same dark cherry, the area rug the same cream colored one that most likely still had a grape juice stain hidden under the light gray armchair. The walls were a dark teal color, the stone fireplace opposite the door painted white, pine mantle displaying a wedding photo of his parents, the senior photos of their three kids, and a family shot at Argent and Laura's wedding, complete with the groom and his daughter Allison.

But as much as things remained unchanged, the place had also been altered due to the holiday. Behind Derek, in front of the bay windows, was their usual oversized tree that was at least a foot too tall that his dad always insisted they get because “it can be trimmed down, Tal, and this way, it's fuller and more round.” The star on top was slightly crooked, half the strings of white lights flashing while the other half remained static because as much work as his dad put into making them all flash, it was inevitable that some would just give up the next time they were cut on, only to work the very next day. He easily found the family heirloom ornaments: the hand carved wolf sitting and howling, the wooden triskele that always sat under the star, illuminated from behind by a static white light, a ceramic stocking with “Hale” painted along the white trim at the top of it.

Further visual investigating helped him find his own decorations, the piece of tin he'd tapped the outline of a candle onto in the second grade, the popsicle stick Star of David in the first, the paper Moravian star from kindergarten. He found the mini rubber basketball he'd signed and put his number on back in high school, the toy sheriff badge his mom had turned into an ornament after he'd graduated the academy, the Han Solo Stiles had bought him back when Derek was still oblivious of any feelings there.

He tore his eyes away from the tree then, seeing the green garland draped from the mantle with a red bow in the middle, the mistletoe over the living room threshold, the nutcrackers of all sizes and origins scattered throughout the room and even out into the hallway because his mom could never resist buying a new one any time she found it in a store or online. A new deep red runner lay across the length of the coffee table, a basket of fake poinsettias and pine cones positioned in the middle, two small green glass candle-holders on either side.

He'd forgotten how his family went all out for Christmas. He was willing to bet the rest of the house was the same, the kids' artwork from their school days hung about, poinsettias in damn near every corner, Santa hat shaped covers over the back of every chair in the dining room, coordinating with the green and red plaid runner and the combination nutcracker/ poinsettia centerpiece. He must've been really out of it to have not noticed the green garland and bows that always wrapped around the porch railing and the four foot nutcrackers that stood on either side of the door or the icicle lights hanging from the porch roof.

Then again, he couldn't exactly be blamed for not being mentally with it, considering all that was going on in his life at that moment.

His mom returned then holding a wooden tray with two steaming cups of coffee, along with a couple small pitchers, which she explained contained milk and cream since she wasn't sure what Parrish preferred. Also explained the small bowl of sugar and the matching one full of packets of sweetener.

Parrish thanked her with his usual friendly smile and Eagle Scout manners, adding the milk and sweetener to his drink before sitting on a loveseat. Derek simply grabbed his mug and sat on the armchair opposite the coffee table from him, remembering the grape juice stain underneath that he and Laura had created then tried to cover up, forgetting in their childlike minds that their mom would be able to sniff it out anyway.

Talia returned the tray to the kitchen before settling on the couch on Derek's right, Satomi seated closer to him, sipping her tea with a smirk directed his way. He retaliated with a large gulp of coffee, a familiar male voice in the back of his mind commenting in a disgusting tone over how wrong it was that he drank his without any sugar or milk or anything.

He ignored it like he always did.

“So,” Talia began, smoothing her dress over her lap, plain gold wedding band catching the overhead light. “Why don't you tell us what happened so we can have a better idea of what exactly is going on?” She aimed her suggestion at Parrish, tone sweetly persuasive yet Derek had a feeling she already knew the answer, just needed the evidence to prove her right.

Parrish nodding as he swallowed his drink, carefully placing his mug on a ceramic coaster with holly painted on it. “I, uh,” he started, pausing to clear his throat and shuffle in his seat. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, eyes focused more on the rug between his sneakers than any of the people in the room. “I was handcuffed to the steering wheel and locked inside my SUV, then me and the car were doused with gasoline then lit on fire.”

Short, sweet, to the point, just like they'd discussed. He'd given enough details to get help but not enough to where they were potentially jeopardizing the case.

His mom nodded as she watched him with narrowed eyes, lips twisted, head slightly tilted to one side. Derek knew it was an expression she wore often, a combination of her thinking and her listening for any tells that the person was lying. He received it a lot as a kid, usually when recalling what he and Laura had just been doing that had gotten one or both of them in trouble. Pleads of innocence and countless “But Mooooom”s went ignored due to her ears and the blips in their heartbeat giving away that they hadn't exactly been as angelic as they were claiming to be.

“And you yourself were on fire?” she questioned, still with the same expression, voice not giving away that she believed him or was skeptical of what he was saying. Not that Derek would blame her. The entire thing was almost too out there to be real, Supe-involvement or not.

Parrish nodded, licking his lips. “Yes, ma—Talia. I remember looking down and seeing flames on my skin and my clothes were completely incinerated.”

She nodded again, switching her focus to Satomi, who simply bowed her head once in acknowledgment. “I had a feeling I knew what was going on when Derek told me what happened over the phone,” she claimed, turning back to her guest. “But seeing you in person confirmed it.”

The deputy lifted his head, glanced at Derek briefly before focusing solely on the Alpha, scooting to the edge of his seat. “And?” he prompted, voice thick.

“You're a Kitsune,” she informed him, smiling gently. “A Japanese fox spirit. I could see your aura the moment we met.”

Derek furrowed his brow at that before regarding his partner, switching to his wolf eyes. Sure enough, he could see streams of light circling the other male, orange glows swirling together to create the image of a fox, acting as armor for the human part of him.

“Kitsunes are based on the four elements then broken down into thirteen categories,” Satomi added, drawing Derek's attention to her. “Most are good Kitsunes, or Inari, while one is bad, or Yako. Both are needed in order to maintain the balance, although Void lives off chaos and fear and panic and will destroy everything in its path in order to feed.”

Parrish's eyes widened at that, his heart rate kicking up to double its speed as fear flooded his scent.

Talia reached over and placed a hand on his knee, giving him a reassuring smile. “Don't worry. You aren't a Nogitsune.”

He exhaled in relief, body slumping as the tension left his muscles and he calmed his anxiety.

Satomi nodded in agreement with her friend. “It sounds as though you are Kasai, or a fire Kitsune. They are able to withstand the flame and with time and practice, learn to control it and even create it. That was how you were able to survive the fire and come out unharmed. Your powers protected you.”

Parrish's teeth sank into his bottom lip as he furrowed his brow, scent so all over the place Derek couldn't decode any of it. But his heartbeat was calm, even, meaning he was relaxed and at ease with the new information. The Werewolf couldn't imagine how it would feel to suddenly be told he wasn't something he'd spent his entire life believing he was, but he'd witnessed Scott being told and the ensuing panic attack, had witness Lydia finding out she was a Banshee and the way she'd flipped her hair in a dismissive manner and pursed her lips as though just waiting to be allowed to leave. From what he'd later been told—from Lydia herself after a few too many vodka and raspberries—she'd had a breakdown alone in her room where she screamed for reasons other than death and cried until her eyes and jaw hurt. She explained it was why her voice was so thrashed all the time and why she had a raspier tone from then on, although she let people believe it was damage done over time from repeated screams.

Derek just hoped that Parrish wouldn't have a similar reaction, that he wasn't sitting there calm and reposed only to explode later on in a fit of overwhelming emotions, a bomb none of them were aware had been detonated and was ticking the minutes down.

His mind flashed back to his partner attacking Haigh at the station, the only time he'd ever seen Parrish out of control. He really didn't want a repeat performance.

The newly discovered Kitsune flicked his eyes up at the Alpha, worry still creasing his brow, curiosity still a major part of his scent. “Why didn't I know about this before?”

Satomi was the one to answer, delicately picking her teacup up from its saucer as she spoke with a voice full of old wisdom to match her dark eyes. “Sometimes a Kitsune's powers are latent, hidden. They have no idea that they are anything other than a regular human. Most live their entire lives having no idea of the power that lays within them.” She paused to sip her tea, smiling at its taste before her face grew serious once more. “But sometimes, a trauma or an accident can cause those powers to be sparked into life.”

Derek ducked his head, shoulders bowing, internally flinching at the word “accident”. He already felt raw over the past couple days, the last few hours making it worse as he'd been constantly bombarded with memories of Stiles and the wreck he'd been in. The reminders and key words weren't helping and he found himself wishing Stiles had been a Supe, that maybe he wouldn't have been so damaged in that collision and would've healed up faster so he wouldn't have to suffer or be so miserable with pain and the inconvenience of his brace.

“You'll have to learn to control your powers, especially one as dangerous as fire,” his mom spoke up, drawing Derek back to the moment. “The last thing you'll want is someone to get hurt or for the SRB to come after you for reckless use of your abilities.”

Parrish's anxiety kicked back up a notch, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “But you guys can help me, right?” he asked tremulously, eyes flicking back and forth between the two Alphas.

Both gave him kind, but apologetic smiles, shaking their heads, the Hale Alpha resting her hand on his knee once again. “Sorry, sweetie, but Kitsunes aren't our specialty. We'd do more damage than help really.”

“However,” Satomi interjected, smile on her face. “We do have a friend who is a Kitsune and would be able to help you.”

Parrish glanced over at Derek, who just shrugged. As far as he knew, the only Kitsune he'd ever interacted with was his partner and he'd only been aware of that status for five minutes now.

“Noshiko Yukimura is an old friend and she'll be coming to town for the holidays,” Satomi went on. “I believe she'll be arriving tomorrow, right?” she aimed the end of her statement at the other Alpha.

The Hale Alpha nodded, sipping her tea. “Yes, just in time for our annual party,” she informed her guests, focusing solely on Parrish. “You're invited to come, of course. It's mostly Pack and close friends. I believe Satomi's pack will be joining us as well.”

The elder Alpha harrumphed at that, pursing her lips as she turned her nose up. “Assuming certain members behave between now and then.”

“Brett again?” his mom sighed, earning a nod and another harrumph in response.

“Sounds fun,” Parrish commented, smiling politely yet with a genuine excitement over the upcoming event. “Is it okay if I bring someone with me?”

Derek smirked, knowing exactly who his partner was hoping to bring. And it seemed like Satomi and his mom had an idea, too, judging by the knowing grins they both wore.

“Of course, sweetie,” the younger Alpha responded with a wink, causing the Kitsune—Derek wasn't sure how long it'd take him before he was used to calling his partner that—to blush slightly and duck his head with a shy grin.

Everything seemed to slam into Derek all at once as the realization of what his mom was referring to finally hit him. The Hales always threw a party on Christmas Eve, something that had started as a small get-together with whatever family that was in town. But over the years, it had grown, including Scott and his mom after his Bite, Argent and Allison joining soon after. Peter drifted in and out over the years, becoming a more stable presence at the party after discovering he had a child and deciding to stay in Beacon Hills to raise her. The Whittemores sometimes joined, despite their Werewolf son Jackson never taking part in the festivities. Lahey joined after being Bitten himself in high school, along with Erica and Boyd, the three of them a packaged deal since Erica refused to let Lahey be alone after knowing what his dad did to him and Boyd constantly followed Erica wherever she went—Mate thing at work again.

Countless other folks from his parents' work or through their ties with the Supernatural community joined in, some SRB Agents whenever they were in town, a nearby Alpha and their Pack, all paying respects to the woman in charge of their county. Some were constant guests, others showed every now and then, and Derek never really had any clue how many people to expect until the party itself actually happened.

He could always count on the Stilinskis to show, though.

At least in the past. Considering he hadn't attended himself the past two years meant he wasn't all that up to date with who showed and who didn't. Stiles obviously was no longer a regular, since he was God knew where. He never thought to ask the sheriff, mainly because he'd been ignoring the fact that the party was even a thing that happened.

Not really a surprise considering the last time he'd attended, he'd ended up leaving early after having spent the entire time being teased by his then-boyfriend and his constant promises of “I think tonight is the night. Ya know, the night.” Perfectly normal to block out painful memories. It was why Stiles couldn't remember anything about his wreck and why the details of Lydia's attack that sparked her Banshee powers were so fuzzy.

The reminder of the party's existence and what had happened during the last one he'd attended punched him in the chest like a wrecking ball and he felt his ribs crack under the weight of its blow. He hadn't been going to his family's party, had been avoiding a certain host of it, hadn't had a date to it. Because in reality, he'd always had a date. He'd spend the entire time hovering around Stiles and watching over him under the delusion of someone needing to watch the klutz and the sheriff was busy enjoying his time off so clearly it was up to Derek to be the responsible one.

His high school girlfriend Paige had thought it was sweet before they fizzled out and she'd decided she couldn't be with anyone if she wanted to attend Julliard. His college girlfriend Jennifer had been annoyed by it, but put on a false smile, stating she should help since she planned on being a teacher, while Derek knew she was seething inside, her scent giving everything away. He'd found an excuse to break up with her later on the next semester. She'd screamed and thrown things at him, yelling about how it wasn't about her, that Derek was the freak obsessed with some little kid and how sick it was. He'd argued that Stiles was only four years younger, he wasn't some little kid, and she'd yelled “good, now you can fuck him and not be a pedo!”

Wasn't the best or most appropriate way or moment to realize you had a crush on a family friend's son, but Derek's life hadn't exactly been anything remotely close to normal.

The memories all swirled in Derek's head, making his wolf whimper and his chest ache and his mind swim. He excused himself to the kitchen under the guise of refilling his coffee, when really, he just needed to get away from all the talk of the party and the moments it brought back to life in his head.

He put his mug by the coffee maker before leaning over and gripping the edge of the counter, inhaling deeply but shakily and blowing it out through his mouth. Everything was just getting to be too much and he wasn't entirely sure he was gonna make it out of December mentally intact. A trip to Eichen House seemed likely in his future.

It wasn't much of a surprise when he heard the soft sounds of rubber soles on the hardwood floors, scented the familiar mix of night-blooming roses, pine, spice, and Pack. His mom stopped on his left, leaning back against the counter with her ankles crossed and arms folded in a casual manner. He felt himself tense up, grip tightening, spine stiffening, the hackles on his wolf raising. But it couldn't be helped, not when her presence brought up memories of the last face-to-face convo he had with her, when everything had completely fallen apart on him and he'd found out she was a big part of it.

“Why does this place smell like Stiles? Was he here? Is he still here?”

“He's gone, won't be back for a while. But he left you this.”

“I don't get—where'd he go? What the hell happened?”

“I can't tell you, sweetheart. I'm so sorry.”

“You ready to have that talk yet?” his mom's current words cut into memories of her past ones and Derek felt his brow pull into a scowl as he glared down at nothing.

“Not really,” he answered honestly, if not a little harsh, not bothering to hide his feelings on the matter. No point really when she could tell if and when he lied and what he was really feeling emotionally through his scent. “Not like I have much a choice though.”

She nodded out the corner of his eye, head slightly ducked, lips pressed together in a hard line. “I really am sorry, sweetheart,” she replied with the same amount of truth as he'd had in his words. And he completely believed her, even if he didn't have the ability to detect a lie. She was too good a person, too good a mom to not feel any remorse over the pain she'd caused anyone, especially one of her kids. It was evident in her voice and in her scent that she truly did regret her actions. The fact that she'd given him space and hadn't bothered trying to reach out to him to try and get them to talk about it was more proof that she felt guilty, as well as Laura's words about their mom explaining that her staying away was a form of self-punishment for hurting her only son.

Hales were nothing if not slightly masochistic.

“But,” she continued, raising her head and turning to towards him. “It was what Stiles wanted and I promised to follow through.”

Derek went from wincing at the mention of his ex's name to chortling out a laugh of disbelief, head shaking as it lifted and he stared straight ahead at a cabinet. “I just don't understand how you could've been so cruel to your own son as to help his Mate disappear.” At the end of his statement, he turned the full force of his scowl on her, ignoring the sympathetic and remorseful twist to her scent and the way her shining eyes were turned down at the corners in sadness.

“I know and I don't expect you to understand it,” she told him with a sad smile. “Believe it or not, I was actually trying to help you both. I didn't expect Stiles to just—” She swept her hand out in front of her, eyes widening in shock before resuming their previous shape. “Completely cut off all contact like that and never return.”

His response was to just roll his eyes and shake his head. “I don't believe that either.”

She sighed softly, hand running through shoulder-length hair before flicking her hand in a helpless gesture. “If it makes it any better, I tried to talk him out of the disappearing act and to discuss things with you. I told him you would completely understand and would support him through all of it.”

“All of what?” he demanded, turning his body to the side to fully face her. “I know that you know so just help me understand and tell me what was so fucking major that he had to cut himself off from everyone and just vanish.”

“It's not my secret to tell,” she rebutted, voice rising in response to his own elevated volume. He gusted out a disbelieving laugh, hands on his hips, shaking his head. Should've known that answer was coming. “But aren't you doing something similar to your own family? Cutting off all contact and vanishing from people's lives?”

He opened his mouth to argue only to snap it shut when he realized his argument was half-assed. Telling her she was wrong because it was only her he'd stopped talking to wasn't really gonna go far into making her statement any less accurate. If anything, it backed it up, made it more legit.

There was a reason why she was Alpha of an entire county and it wasn't solely because she'd inherited the position from her father.

“Tell you what,” she began, softer, her own body facing his now. “I'll offer you a deal. Show up to the Christmas Eve party tomorrow, and I'll leave you completely alone. I won't try and contact you, won't force you to talk, won't try and get you to forgive me. I'll let you decide from then on how our relationship will be. If we even have one.”

Her voice was so strong, so sure, so confident in her words, yet Derek could scent the emotional toll it was taking on her, how much it hurt her as a mother to agree to let her only son go without a fight. Not that she'd been putting up much of a fight over the past couple years. But if what she'd said about having not expected Stiles to be gone so long, then chances were she believed that Derek wouldn't stay mad forever and would've eventually come back to her.

He felt like an ass really. All that time he'd been pissed at his mom and really, she was just another victim of Stiles' actions. She'd loved him like another son, even before Derek had yet to gain just a modicum of a feeling regarding the whole Mate thing. Realizing that Stiles hadn't been entirely honest about plans to return or keeping in contact had to be a huge blow to her, too, especially when she became aware of the way it affected her son.

But there was still that one fact that kept sticking out like a flashing neon sign...

“You helped him leave,” he choked out, shoulders drooped, head hanging, arms limp by his sides. “You told him where to go and helped him get there and you hid that information. From me, from his dad, from everyone.” He raised his head and looked his mom in the eye, his vision wavy, voice cracking as he spoke. “You were the one who put the idea in his head to leave. Weren't you?”

His mom pressed her lips together, her own eyes shining brighter with unshed tears as she reluctantly nodded. “But I told him to wait until after graduation, after he'd talked it out with you, and after he'd talked it out with his dad.” She reached out to him, to touch his arm, hand hovering by his bicep before she wrapped both arms tightly around her own chest. “Sweetie, I swear I never meant for you to get hurt and I only had your best interests in heart. Both your best interests. I'm just sorry that things didn't go the way I'd hoped and I'm sorry that you're in more pain that I can even imagine.”

He ducked his head as he nodded, his own arms folded tightly over his chest, taking her words in and taking them straight to heart. Because it was clear that they originated from hers and that she meant every word she'd said, that it wasn't some bullshit spouted because she thought she had to say it or that it would be the best way to get back on his good side. Didn't even seem like she expected his forgiveness in any way, considering how she told him that she was letting him decide where they go from there.

Parrish's laugh drifted in from the next room, reminding him of why he'd gone to his mom's house in the first place. And then he remembered the last Christmas Eve party he'd been to. What happened after. What happened the next day.

Really though, when he thought about it, it wouldn't hurt to go to this one. It would be good for Parrish to have back-up whenever Lydia flourished into the social butterfly that she was and spent time fluttering about from group to group. It would be good for him to make new memories and no longer have to think the phrase “the last Hale Christmas Eve party I attended” in a negative way. It would be good for his mom, for him, to move on to the next step. Or even just figure out what that step would be.

“All right,” he whispered before repeating it in a louder volume. “I'll come.”

His mom lit up like the star on top of the tree, smiling hugely, eyes shining. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she replied genuinely, hands clutched together in front of her chin before she grasped his arms and kissed his cheek.

Derek just nodded more, for the five-hundredth time that day, unable to prevent his lips from curving up at the corners at the joy on his mom's face and in her scent and the knowledge that he'd put it there.

“It's good to see you,” she beamed, rubbing his upper arms then releasing him and stepping back.

“Good to see you, too,” he murmured back. Because as much as he'd been hurt by her actions in the past, it really was great to be around his mom—and his Alpha—once again.

She kissed his cheek again before heading back into the living room, still smiling, steps a little lighter now. Derek hung back, exhaling deeply in a way he hadn't in years, feeling like he held less weight himself. Maybe Laura had been right. Maybe he'd needed to talk to their mom and get all their shit sorted.

Not that he'd ever say that to her, but he still thought it. Along with the belief that he couldn't help but feel better and possibly like he was on his way to gaining back at least one of the people he'd lost. Better than none really.

Tiny smile on his face, he gazed around the room, noting how nothing was all that different there either, including the poinsettia curtains over the window and the holly potholders she brought out during the holiday season.

And the photo of him and Stiles sleeping on the couch wrapped up in each other's arms.

Derek remembered exactly when that picture had been taken, remembered laying on the loveseat with Stiles between his legs and draped over him during Hale Family Movie Night—the capital letters done by Stiles to show just how important said night was—remembered waking up to the click of a camera and the flash of a light, narrowing his glowing gold eyes at his younger sister Cora as she smirked behind her phone. The rest of the female contingent of his family had cooed over the shot, his dad stating that they make a good pair, Derek's cheeks and ears burning from embarrassment, which only served to further amuse his sisters.

His mom had been the one to print it out and stick it to the fridge amongst other photos of their family during various moments, all candid shots of playing board games, running in the woods, in the middle of a water balloon war, gathered around the table at Thanksgiving. It warmed Derek's heart and made his stomach flutter every time he caught sight of the pic of he and Stiles amid the various shots of his family, thinking about how much Stiles seemed to flawlessly fit into his family itself and how that photo was just proof of it.

Now, however, the shot made his chest ache and his stomach roll in a not-so-pleasant way. With heightened speed, he flipped the photo over, pinning it with the same magnet from the Main Street Diner. Having passive-aggressively made his mark, he headed into the living room, asking Parrish if he was all set. The other deputy nodded and goodbyes were exchanged all around, along with promises to see one another the next night. Derek smiled tightly at his mom and bowed his head politely at Satomi, then headed out the door with his partner.

They quickly got settled in Derek's SUV, Parrish exhaling through an o-shaped mouth with a long, drawn out breath. The werewolf turned his head to his passenger, eyebrow cocked in curiosity and concern.

“You alright?”

The leaner male nodded, pressing his lips into a hard line as he stared straight ahead out the windshield at the house they'd just exited. “Yeah, just.” He paused, rubbed at the back of his head before gesturing out in front of him. “It's a lot to take in. Feeling a little overwhelmed.” He laughed softly, the sound as fake as the smile he plastered on his face, his easy-going facade easily seen through.

Derek nodded slowly, glancing at the house he'd grown up in, thinking about the convo he'd just had with his mom. “Overwhelmed” seemed to be the word of the day, the emotion plentiful amongst the two of them, and there was only one thing he could think of to do at a time like that.

Starting the car, he slipped his seat belt on and put the SUV in gear. “Right. We're getting drunk.”

Parrish's head snapped to him, head tilted, brow furrowed. “Thought you couldn't get drunk,” he commented, pointing to his partner before putting his hand on his chest. “Thought I couldn't get drunk now.”

Derek shrugged as he reversed and turned his car so it faced the other direction, allowing them to leave the way they came. “They make beer brewed with this special kind of wolfsbane that's too weak to do any damage, but still potent enough to slow your healing down, allowing you to get at least a buzz. You can't even taste the stuff, which is cool 'cause you can also mix it with other drinks if you wanted.”

The Kitsune nodded, licking his lips then curving them into a wry grin. “Got any Miller 64 at your place?”

The larger male snorted as he drove down the dirt road that served as the Hale driveway, mind already figuring out where the nearest liquor store was and the route he needed to take to get there. He wasn't sure if the two of them could get wasted, but that day seemed like a good one to give it their best shot.

Chapter Text

He and Parrish ended up getting wasted and Lydia was none too impressed with either of them when she showed up seething because Parrish hadn't called like he'd promised. But Parrish had talked her down with sweet words and sweeter smiles, calming her rage and further proving how well they worked together as a couple.

Derek slipped out unnoticed without a goodbye, limbs heavy from wolfsbane-infused alcohol and chest tight from the memory of having been in Lydia's shoes.

“YOGO, Derry-Berry. You only grad'jate once.”

He barely made it up to his apartment before the tears started and he was unconscious the second he flopped down onto the couch.

Derek hated the smell of hospitals. The overwhelming disinfectants they used—which were not friendly on any nose, much less a Supe's one—the chemosignals laced with fear, pain, anguish, anxiety, concern, sadness, all of it overpowering the joy and relief of someone having gotten better or the ecstasy of a newborn baby and the expansion of one's family. Hell, even the maternity ward was doused with negative chemosignals: the pain of childbirth, the anger over someone's Mate—or spouse, as humans put it—having caused the female to go through said pain, the fear over something bad happening, the worry when a child was born early or with something medically wrong. He hated visiting there when his younger sister Cora was born, spent the entire time with his nose scrunched up in disgust.

The ER was the worst though, all the blood and death and gore, the pain and loss and terror. There was more panic and anguish there than any other part of the hospital. And unfortunately for Derek, it was where he needed to be.

He crashed through the doors, slamming into the reception desk, eyes glowing gold in worry and fear and anxiety and a million other emotions that were just making the place reek even more. He could barely get the words out, was panting too hard, his heart thudding a million miles an hour both out of dread and the fact that he'd run all the way from his house to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, too impatient to deal with his Camaro.

The nurse at the station reared back, eyes wide, her own fear a potent scent in his nose. But he paid it no mind, struggled to get the words out past his heavy breathing, the question stuck in his heaving chest.

Luckily for him, his name was called to his left, the sheriff standing there in full uniform, hands on his hips as he shook his head at Derek in a mix of bewilderment and amusement. He gestured the younger man over with a wave of the hand, Derek practically flying to his side. He'd long since lost control of his wolf, couldn't keep himself human to save his life at that point—which thankfully wasn't the case since Hunting had been abolished long before he was born. But it couldn't be helped really, not when someone called you to tell you—

“I didn't mean for you to come here,” Stilinski stated flatly, though not in a rude way. His lips were turned up at the corner, meaning Derek's presence wasn't unwelcomed, just unexpected. “And judging from the panting and the sweat covering you and soaking your shirt, you clearly ran all the way, right?”

The Werewolf just nodded, swallowing hard, mouth dry for reasons other than thirst. “Is he—?”

“He's fine,” the older man interrupted, knowing exactly what was about to be asked. “Which you would've known had you not hung up right after I'd said 'Stiles was in an accident'.” He gave the darker haired male a pointed look, eyebrow cocked, arms folded over his chest. But it didn't last long, the sheriff deflating with a sigh, head shaking as he chuckled. “Aw, hell, son, just ask the boy out already, for the love of God and all of our sanities.”

Derek completely froze all over, except for his brows which shot up to his hairline and his jaw which completely dropped. He croaked out a weird noise he wasn't sure was supposed to be words and what words exactly it'd be, a nervous laugh bubbling out of him. It was the last thing he'd expect to hear from a family friend, a man he'd grown up knowing, was a second father to him, more family than his actual uncle. It also wasn't something he expected from such a high authority of law and the father of an underaged boy.

“Just ask the boy out already.”

More nervous laughter came from Derek, his hand wringing the back of his neck, a forced smile on his lips. “Yeah, I-I-I, uh, I have. I have no idea what you're, uh, what you're even talking about,” he babbled, wrapping it up with more chuckling. He was sounding and looking like an idiot, thrown through such a complete loop that he no longer had idea which way was up or what color the sky was or who the hell he even was anymore.

Stilinski snorted, rolling his blue eyes. “I'm not an idiot, Derek. They didn't give me this badge—” he pointed to the star designating him sheriff affixed over his left pec “—because I'm a shit cop and I don't see what's right in front of me. You two have been dancing around each other for too long and quite frankly, I'm sick of watching it. Your mother is, too, by the way.”

He closed his eyes and wished himself away, feeling his ears heat up and the blush spread to his cheeks. Oh fuck, his mom had been talking about his love life. There was really nothing more mortifying than that. Except for maybe time he'd come out to her as bi and her reaction had been that she'd told his father that years ago and “it's not exactly news, sweetheart, but I'm glad you've finally caught on to it.”

“We're both waiting on the day one of you locates your balls and asks the other one out.”

Shit, now the sheriff of their entire county was talking about his balls.

With his mom.

The Alpha of their entire county.

Kill him now.

“But since my son is too much of a chickenshit and would rather wait for someone else to make the first move, it's gonna have to be up to you.”

Derek's eyes popped back open, wide as they stared at the older man. “Wha—Sheriff, Mr. Stilinski, I-I can't. Stiles is only seventeen, he's a junior in high school, he's—”

“He's my son and I'm the law and if I say it's okay, then it's okay.” He paused to sigh, eyes tight as he met the Werewolf's. “I know you'll take care of him and that you'll only have his best interests in heart. You've been watching over him for years and honestly, I'd only be okay with him dating someone older if it was you. Besides, I don't need a Supe's nose in order to tell how much you two want each other.”

“Laura says we're nauseating,” he blurted out without thinking. “She pinches her nose every time she's around us.” And seriously, why was he talking? He needed to just shut the fuck up and go back home and completely disappear.

The sheriff gestured to him with an open hand. “There you go. Just ask Stiles out and give everyone some peace of mind.” He refolded his arms and bobbed his head to the side in acknowledgment. “And peace of nose.”

Derek nodded, lips pressed together. It wasn't that he hadn't ever thought about it, what it would be like to actually be with Stiles, how he'd ask the guy out, what their relationship would be like, the whole nine. But imagining it late at night alone in his room or when he'd space out while hanging out with the human was totally different from actually doing it, actually shoring up his courage and asking him out.

It wasn't that he was afraid of rejection or anything; he'd been aware of those feelings being returned for the longest time, probably as long as he'd been aware of his own feelings. It was mostly out of respect of the law and of the sheriff and maybe a little bit of worry that kept him from making a move. Because Stiles smelled of attraction and lust and yeah, those things would lead to a roll in the sack, but they didn't necessarily mean a relationship. Besides, he was a teenager and they all smelled like that anyway. Hormones at work really.

Besides, Derek was a Werewolf and Stiles was human and those relationships were still pretty damn rare, even in today's more “progressive and forward-thinking” society.

Stilinski seemed to have had enough of Derek's hesitation, moving behind him and shoving him down the hall, yelling out a room number as the Werewolf stumbled along his way.

Derek knocked on the frame of the open door, only entering when he'd heard a gruff “c'min”. He took a deep breath before actually going in, steeling himself for what he was about to see, along with what he was about to do.

Stiles was propped up in bed, bandage wrapped around the top of his buzzed head, left cheek bruised up. A brace was around his left wrist as it lay on his lap, scratches and cuts evident on the exposed skin between it and the sleeve of his hospital gown, right arm banged up, too. His left leg was in a sling hung from the ceiling, a bandage around the thigh, ugly bruises along his shin. Heavy bags were evident under his half-lidded eyes, his skin paler than usual, and the light in his whiskey eyes was gone.

Derek inhaled sharply, inadvertently taking in the scents of Stiles' pain and blood, the depression and upset he was feeling at being stuck in a bed, the leftover panic and terror he'd felt during the accident itself. Shit. It hadn't hit Derek until that exact minute how close he'd come to losing Stiles forever, to having him permanently taken away from him, to no longer having his Mate around before he even got a chance to tell the guy that he was his Mate.

But no more. He wasn't taking any more chances that they'd still have time, wasn't risking waiting until Stiles was eighteen and he could make a move without worrying over the sheriff's reaction. Not when that time wasn't guaranteed. Plus he had Stilinski's blessing, so really, the only thing holding him back was himself.

Easy fix.

Determination took over and he practically stalked his way over to the bed. Stiles' eyes widened, hands on the bed as he tried to push himself into a more upright position.

“Der? What—?”

He never got a chance to finish his question. Derek grabbed either side of his face and slammed their lips together.

Which was a terrible fucking idea, because he ended up cutting his lip on his teeth and making the younger man cry out in pain.

He pulled back slightly, keeping their lips connected but in a gentler fashion, kissing him softly and sweetly and the way Stiles deserved to be kissed. His hands on the teen's cheeks pulled the pain away from him and he felt the human sag in relief against him.

Stiles didn't quite kiss back though, his scent full of confusion and shock, lips still as they remained pursed against Derek's. The Werewolf opened his eyes to note how the other man's were already wide, brow furrowed, his lips curving up at the corners in a smile.

Derek fully pulled back, keeping his hands in place to continue draining away Stiles' pain. He heard both of their hearts pounding loudly and completely in sync, scented both their joy and relief and the teen's puzzlement. But it didn't matter. Because Stiles was alive and okay and they'd finally kissed.

“Der?”

“I love you.”

Stiles' shock doubled, eyes widening once more before returning to their usual shape and size. A huge grin broke out over his face, eyes twinkling, joy overpowering in his scent. “Love you, too. Dork Wolf.” With a chuckle, he pulled Derek's face close with his good hand, reconnecting their lips.

Life for Derek was good.

Derek woke up around three and then just couldn't get back to sleep. His mind was buzzing with too many thoughts, all swirling and mixing and driving him insane, keeping him awake. Facts about the case. Parrish being a Kitsune. His family's Christmas Eve party later on. The fact that it was now Christmas Eve. Tomorrow being Christmas Day.

He distracted himself by cleaning his place, taking the opportunity to actually mop and scrub surfaces he rarely got to deep clean. He did his laundry in the basement of the building, reading up on Kitsunes and finding a whole lotta contradicting information on the internet—although every site he read all stated that Kitsunes were tricksters and had tails.

Terrific.

Laundry put up, he hit a twenty-four hour gym and got in a good workout, exercising until his body was close to completely giving out on him and he had just enough energy to shower and get himself home.

Throughout all of it, though, his mind was completely awake and his distractions were only temporary. Even making breakfast wasn't enough to calm his thoughts and he continuously found his eyes drifting over to his calendar. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Boxing Day. Full moon.

God, he was in for a fun fucking week.

With nothing else to do, he got dressed in his deputy uniform and went to work, figuring he could head in early, then leave early, too. Because he was going to his family's Christmas Eve party. And he was totally excited. Except for the part where he wasn't. Which was the whole damn thing.

The department was nearly deserted when he walked in, Greenberg at the front desk, Lahey and Boyd loitering in the break room, couple other deputies scattered throughout the bullpen. Derek headed straight to his own desk, nodding his head at anyone who greeted him, booting his computer up as he put his jacket on the back of his chair then flopped down on it.

Stilinski was at his desk soon after, surprise coloring his scent and confusion furrowing his brow as he stared down at his deputy, greeting him with a gruff “Hale”. He waited until Derek leaned back and focused his attention on his boss, on the way he was seated on the edge of the desk with his arms folded over his chest. “Surprised to see you here this early.”

Derek simply shrugged, not wanting to go into detail about how he couldn't sleep and had pretty much run out of other things to do, other than lay back in bed, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate his existence. “Need to get off early for my family's Christmas Eve thing,” he stated flatly, only half-lying. Really, showing up late because he had to work would've been more preferable, would be the perfect excuse for leaving early, too. But nope, his mind decided to not let him rest and his guilt decided to make him feel bad for not working the day before while the department was in the middle of a huge case and his logic decided it would be a good idea to go to the station and get started.

Awesome.

Stilinski's shock doubled, eyebrows raising and deepening the wrinkles in his forehead. “Must say I'm surprised to hear that you're going, considering you skipped the last two.” At Derek's confused head tilt, he shrugged and gestured with an open hand. “I've known your mom longer than you have, son. I go to that party every year.”

Derek wanted to voice his surprise at that, to explain how he figured the older man wouldn't go, not when it was such a reminder of the one guest who was no longer attending. But when he really thought about it, the sheriff probably just didn't wanna be alone and preferred being surrounded by other people to distract him from what was missing. It was why the two of them always volunteered to work Christmas Day, so that neither one of them was at home thinking about what the holiday was and why it felt so empty to them.

There was a reason why people became workaholics and it usually started with problems at home.

But thinking about all that wasn't what Derek wanted to do at that moment. He'd come to work for a distraction and he was losing focus on that intention. His eyes flitted to his desk, to the computer he still had to log into, to the locked drawer he had containing the hospital security flashdrive.

“Haigh say anything?” he changed the subject in a completely unsubtle way, turning his head back to his boss.

The sheriff snorted, head rocking with the motion, hand wringing the back of his neck. “That he wanted a lawyer,” he grumbled before refolding his arms. “Which he cannot afford. And with the holiday, the public defender's office is backed up and won't have one for him for a while.”

“Good,” Derek sneered, disgust curling his lip up. “Let the bastard rot.”

The older man bobbed his eyebrows and his head in a manner that said he agreed but couldn't actually say it, his position as sheriff forcing him to remain neutral and his role as Haigh's boss causing him to act as though he had his employee's back.

Derek did not envy the man nor his position.

“Can I get an update on what I missed yesterday?” he requested, finally logging in to the system and waiting for his slow computer do its thing.

“Boyd went over Parrish's apartment, found a human scent that didn't belong to him or Lydia, but was scented at the Wolcott's.”

The Werewolf's head perked up at that, looking up at his boss with wide eyes. “So definitely related then,” he concluded, earning a nod in return.

“Lahey went through the employment files at Beacon Memorial and found no one matching the description Parrish gave or the guy on the tapes,” Stilinski continued, puffing his chest out to stretch his back. “Clearly the man was an imposter, bought fake scrubs somewhere so he could sneak in undetected and finish off the Wolcott family.”

The deputy nodded in agreement, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as he stared straight ahead at nothing. The theory made sense, was perfectly logical. But there were still a lot more unanswered questions about who the man even was and why they'd felt it necessary to go back and make sure any remaining members of that family were killed.

Then again, that last part was most likely just tying up loose ends and erasing any witnesses, thus allowing them to evade arrest. At least until they struck again and left behind some sort of evidence that helped the department identify them. Or Haigh said something actually useful in order to save his own ass, or just out of plain stupidity.

“Get anywhere with Parrish?” the sheriff questioned, scent a mix of curiosity and genuine concern. Derek was well-aware that he and Parrish were Stilinski's two favorite deputies—even if the older man never actually said so, mostly because he wasn't allowed to—so the worry he had over Parrish was real and the question hadn't been asked out of some sort of employer obligation.

The Werewolf leaned back in his chair, hands clasped on top of his head. “Fire Kitsune,” he stated, raising his eyebrows in a “how 'bout that?” manner, lips pulled into a tight smile. “Apparently some older Kitsune will be arriving today and will help him adjust and gain control of his powers.”

“Noshiko Yukimura?” Stilinski double-checked, earning a nod. “Yeah, I've heard of her. Kind of a legend in Kitsune circles. She and Satomi Ito took down a Nogitsune, just the two of them, back in the forties.”

His brow furrowed as he rubbed at his jaw, eyes fixated on his computer screen once more. The mention of a Nogitsune sparked an idea in his head, a theory regarding their current case. Nogitsunes literally fed on chaos, panic, and fear, and what caused more of those things than Supes being killed in abundance? It was definitely a lead worth following.

But he never got the chance to voice his opinion, Greenberg rushing over in a panting, sweating mess, reeking of anxiety. The sheriff leveled a hard look on the deputy, brow lowered over squinting eyes and a tight jaw.

“There better be a good reason for you interrupting us, Greenberg,” he demanded tightly, puffing out his chest to draw attention to his sheriff's badge.

“Y-y-yes, sir. There is,” the human stammered, eyes flicking over to catch sight of Derek's own scowl. “Another body was just found, this time in an old warehouse.”

Stilinski breathed out a swear, smearing a hand over his face as he sighed out harshly. “It's the fuckin' holidays,” he grumbled under his breath as he rose to his feet, adjusting his belt around his waist.

“Clearly they don't care,” Derek deadpanned, hands falling onto his lap. They weren't gonna catch a break, not while these killers were out there. The bodies were just gonna keep piling up and the blood was on their hands just as much as it was on the murderers', because they'd yet to catch the perps and they were failing in their duty to keep the citizens safe.

His skin felt tight, an ache in the center of his chest, and he flopped over his knees, hands shoved in his hair. They were failing, he was a failure. Even with all his powers as a Supe, he was letting people down with his inability to do his damn job. And he was a shit son, too, pushed his mom aside and had to be emotionally blackmailed in order to hear her side of the story when she was innocent in all of it. Clearly, he was a shit Mate on top of it, otherwise Stiles wouldn't have left him.

“A knot, Derek. There's not supposed to be a knot.”

Right. Thinking about that at that moment was completely helpful and totally a great idea.

“Right,” Stilinski broke into his thoughts, hands akimbo, Sheriff Mode set to “on” with the way his brow was furrowed in determination and his jaw was taught. “Greenberg, call CSU and the ME, have 'em meet us there. Hale, you grab your stuff. I want you there with me.”

Both deputies gave sharp “yes, sir”s before Greenberg headed back to his post and the sheriff strode to his office. Derek shot up to his feet, throwing on his windbreaker as he logged out of his computer, knowing better than to leave it open and vulnerable to any snoopy teenage son of a sheriff who decided to stick his nose where it didn't belong.

Things gathered, he headed to his boss' office to wait on him. As much as it sucked to now be off to investigate another dead body, Derek couldn't help the small amount of morbid hope he felt, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they'd get lucky and find some real evidence to help point them in the right direction.

After all, wasn't it the season of miracles?

His day went to hell.

The body had been found in the warehouse district, identified as a Werewolf named Ennis. Identified by his Mate Kali, who had also found his body.

Derek spent the afternoon interviewing her, the slender female growing more and more agitated and snippy with him as the questioning continued. He tried his best to remain calm, keeping his voice level and to balance his position as member of law enforcement with the fact that he was a beta talking to an Alpha. An Alpha who'd just lost her Mate and was clearly in an emotionally vulnerable state.

Although it didn't seem like Kali had a whole lot of emotions past “anger” and “passive-aggressively snarky”.

But Derek just kept his own mood even and his body language submissive, wary of the fact that her bare feet were currently sporting claws and her fangs were out, even when her eyes were their natural brown hue. And he also tried his best to be mindful of her situation, fully aware that he'd be acting just as aggressive and enraged as her if his own Mate had been killed.

Thinking of the situation being reversed did nothing to help him and he spent the rest of the afternoon getting progressively emotionally shaky, to the point where he was unlocking his loft door with trembling, clawed hands and seeing with his wolf's eyes. It couldn't be helped though. Stiles had been gone for years and there was a possibility that something had happened to him. Another accident, a territorial Werewolf who didn't like another Werewolf's scent on him, a random mugging on the street, a wrong-place-wrong-time shooting. Any number of things could've happened to his Mate and Derek would have no idea.

No. Stiles was fine, he was okay. Stilinski had just spoken to him two days ago and everything was all right. He'd tell Derek if anything bad had happened, was well aware that his deputy would wanna know and that the Werewolf could detect any sort of lie if he wasn't being completely honest with his son's current condition.

Right. Derek was totally overreacting and being a complete jackass and he needed to just shake it all off. He had enough shit to worry about without adding in the well-being of a Mate he hadn't seen in nearly three years.

In exactly three years. It was now the anniversary of the last time he'd laid eyes on his Mate.

Of when he'd fucked up and freaked the guy out with his Werewolf-ness to the point where he ran off.

Yeah, he needed to not think of that either.

A quick glance at his phone showed he was actually running behind and that he seriously needed to just get his ass in the shower and get a move on. Smearing a hand over his face, he put his gun in its safe attached to the side of his nightstand and removed all the items from his utility belt before whipping it off and heading to the bathroom. Yeah, he definitely had bigger things to worry about, like his family's Christmas Eve party that he was already late for.

The front yard of the Hale house was packed with cars of all makes and models, Derek barely able to find a space for his SUV. His boots crunched on the frost covered dead grass as he made his way to the door, finding his older sister standing on the front porch with her hip cocked and her arms folded over her chest.

Derek tried not to think about how they were matching in burgundy sweaters and black jeans, her boots knee-high while his were more of the shit-kicker variety. It just reminded him of his mother purposely putting them in similar—if not completely matching—outfits for family outings or cheesy Christmas card photos taken at the same portrait studio every year. They'd only stopped when Laura and Derek had staged an intervention after she'd left for college, something their mom guilted them about for months afterwards, typical maternal commentary about how her kids didn't love her anymore, complete with fake sniffs and overdramatic noses in the air. The elder Hale female repeatedly insisted that they'd come to appreciate the family portraits when they were older but so far, that wasn't the case.

“You're late,” Laura commented with a smirk, flicking curled black hair behind her shoulder as she stared down at him.

He glared up at her, hands shoved in his pockets as he strode over, sweater bunching up over the denim where his thumbs were stuck through the holes in the hems but couldn't quite fit in the pocket. “Just be glad I even showed up at all, considering how my day's gone,” he grumbled through a clenched jaw, letting his agitation and fatigue show.

Her face fell, smirk replaced with a worried frown and her arms shifted to hold herself rather than convey any sort of sass. Concern overrode her scent, punching him in the face as he headed up the steps. “What happened?”

“Another body was found,” he told her, drawing to a stop in front of her, shoulders drooping when he heaved out a sigh. “I spent the entire afternoon interviewing the vic's Mate.”

His sister grimaced, inhaling with a hiss through clenched teeth. “You, baby bro, need a drink,” she commented, wrapping both of her arms around one of his and halfway dragging him inside the house.

The place was overwhelming on all the senses, bright lights flashing, ugly Christmas sweaters at a premium. “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree” was playing through the entertainment system in the den, wireless speakers placed in every room. Countless scents hit him everywhere he turned, a lot he didn't recognize, some carrying a similar note of Pack. He figured it was Satomi's betas, discovering he was right when he spotted her in the living room chatting with a snugly Parrish and Lydia. Cora was chatting it up in a corner with Lahey, the curly-haired deputy grinning in a goofy way that set off Derek's protective instincts. He'd have to talk with the kid about that later on when things died down.

Laura continued leading him through the house, Derek still looking around at the guests, only barely recognizing most of them. His cousin Malia was easy to find, blue eyes flashing as she held a lanky beta male in a headlock, a shorter, more muscular one looking on with anxiety rolling off him in waves, a dark-skinned human next to him cheering Malia on.

The kitchen wasn't as heavily occupied as the rest of the house, only one person in there grabbing a beer out the fridge. And while normally Derek would be beyond glad for that, it wasn't the case at that time. Because that one person happened to be Scott McCall. As in Stiles' ex-best friend, a guy who was practically a brother to him. The two had been peas in a pod, practically inseparable throughout their entire lives. There were times when Derek seriously questioned whether or not they were actually conjoined twins, he and everyone else shocked whenever one was spotted without the other. No one believed anything could ever come between the two of them.

Then Allison Argent moved to town their sophomore year and proved everyone wrong. Not that Derek was complaining, since it meant Stiles was over at his loft more often. Although he could've done with about a hundred-percent less complaining about Scott breaking Bro Code or some other bullshit like that.

Derek had nothing against Scott, thought he was a good guy, lovable and endearing, if not a little slow and naïve. But it was like Lydia all over again, only worse. Because Derek and Lydia had bonded over a few too many shots and way too much complaining while he and Scott couldn't be around each other without being reminded of that mutual guy they'd lost. They'd never established a relationship of their own, never really bonded, and because of that, all their interactions were strained and tense.

Like at that moment.

Scott froze with his hand on the fridge door, other one grasping a wolfsbane beer, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Derek. His dark eyes flicked over to Laura before settling back on the other male beta, forcing a lopsided grin, skewed further by his crooked jaw.

“He-hey, Derek,” he greeted him, confusion and unease dominating his scent. Shutting the fridge door, he faked a laugh and rolled his shoulders, putting on an easy front. “Surprised to see you here,” he commented before going wide-eyed again and throwing his hands out in front of himself in defense. “A good surprise. Totally a good surprise. Shocking, but in a good way.” An uneasy laugh wrapped up his ramble and he reached back to scratch his neck, only remembering he had a beer in his hand when the cold glass touched the skin exposed by his Beacon Hills High Lacrosse hoodie.

Derek nodded slowly once, feeling Laura extract herself from her hold on him, stepping to the side out the corner of his eye. “Can't avoid people forever,” he replied flatly, forcing his own tense muscles to relax, his hands curled into fists in his pockets, and he just knew he was scowling at the other Werewolf. But his ex had once told Scott—in front of Derek, of course—that “scowl” was Derek's default facial expression and he shouldn't take it personally.

Scott's scent shifted to something sadder, his smile becoming more fake even as his eyes turned down at the corners. It was only then that Derek realized that his statement could've been interpreted as a reference to Stiles and the fact that the human seemed to be resisting any communication with any of them—except his dad, of course. Shit. 'Cause things weren't awkward enough between the two of them.

“Yeah, totally,” the younger man remarked with fake cheer, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “Well, I'll catch you guys later. Good to see you, Derek, Laura.” He gave each of them a quick nod before slipping out the room between the two Hale siblings.

Derek remained in his spot, not moving, not entirely sure how to react to that really. Stunned was a good word. But also not, because it wasn't that he was surprised by any of it. It was just...weird. Awkward. Fucked up and therefore able to fit in with how his life was going lately.

“Yeeeeah,” Laura began, drawing the word out and catching his attention. “You definitely need that drink.”

He just snorted, walking over to the island counter and flopping down onto a stool. “Make it about ten.”

“Let's start with one, shall we?” she suggested with a wag of the eyebrows before grabbing them each a wolfsbane infused beer from the fridge and sitting on his right.

Nothing was said for a while, both silently sipping their beers, Derek staring straight ahead at his mom's insane curtains and Laura...Laura was staring at him. He ignored it to the best of his ability, feeling more unnerved the longer it went on. He honestly had no clue what she was staring at, why she was staring so intently, with narrowed, analytical eyes, what exactly she was hoping to say.

He opened his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by his sister snorting.

“Seriously, this song?” she remarked with a roll of the eyes. “Not very festive, Mom.”

Derek cocked an eyebrow before focusing his hearing on the music playing in the next room, the lyrics seeping into his conscious.

“I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve, I wish I were with you—”

He echoed his sister's snort, but didn't comment further, simply sipping from his bottle. Didn't stop his mind from running wild with a thousand remarks of its own, most of the negative “when the hell did I start relating to a fuckin' Carpenters song?” variety. But it was true, as embarrassing as it was. Because there really was only one thing Derek could think to wish for and that was to spend it with his ex. Would pretty much take a wish—and a miracle—to make it happen.

His eyes flicked down, staring at the bottle as he held it clasped between his hands on the table, thumb picking at the edge of the label. His shoulders slumped as his head hung, body too tired and too without care to actually worry about holding itself up anymore.

“You wanna talk about it?” Laura inquired, swirling her beer around in its bottle, elbow on the counter, eyebrow quirked like a question mark.

“About what?” he grumbled, not bothering to look at her, not when her scent was full of concern and curiosity.

“About the Stiles-shaped elephant in the room,” she clarified, pausing to bring her bottle closer to her mouth. “Or the case? Whatever's on your mind, baby bro.” She wrapped it up with a shrug, pretending like his decision wouldn't affect her, whatever it may be, bottle to her lips as she sipped.

Derek lifted his head, glancing about the room, noticing the pic he'd flipped backwards the day before had been righted. Should've expected that really. Still hurt to see that damn image again. And even if he wasn't staring at proof of his loss, he still wouldn't wanna talk about it. Seemed better to talk about dead bodies and his belief that he was failing at his job.

“It's the same as the others,” he commented, eyes focused on his beer again. “Multiple stab wounds, all with that weird hexagonal shape around the marks.”

“Shit,” Laura breathed out, tipping the rest of her drink back and holding it in her cheeks like an alcoholic chipmunk.

He nodded in agreement, bobbing his eyebrows. “Stilinski's worried the FBI and SRB are gonna get involved now that the body count has gotten even higher.”

His sister went quiet, scent shifting to something more upset. “You might be right,” she murmured, thumb idling stroking the side of her bottle as she stared at it. Avoiding eye-contact while thinking and/or talking about deep shit was apparently a Hale thing. “Chris has been acting weird, very secretive and distant. I keep catching him lost in thought and he acts like and says he's okay when he smells off and worried.”

Derek just nodded, brow furrowed, hand scratching absently at his jaw. It was definitely something to think about later, a fact to revisit, maybe even talk to the man about. He then remembered about the Argents and how they were formerly a family of premier Hunters, how most of them hadn't gotten over their aversion to Supes and were incredibly bigoted. Maybe his brother-in-law knew something about the current string of murders but was hiding it, protecting someone. Maybe even protecting himself.

He didn't get a chance to fully think it through though, the front door opening and distracting him from his train of thought. Both he and Laura turned their heads towards the archway into the living room but neither bothered getting up to actually find out who'd just arrived, their view of the door blocked by countless party guests.

“Must be the Yukimuras,” Laura deduced, rising to her feet but walking around the island toward the fridge rather than off to greet their guests.

Which...

Derek frowned in confusion at her, sneering slightly. “Wait, I thought it was just Noshiko?”

She shrugged as she reached inside the fridge and grabbed another beer, holding it in his direction to silently ask if he wanted another. He nodded, draining the one he still had as she reached back into the appliance. “Mom said she was bringing the whole fam,” she cleared up, bumping the door shut with a hip. “No clue about any of 'em though, so don't even ask.”

He bobbed his eyebrows in dismissal, accepting the bottle she held out to him as she sat, opening it with a twist of the cap. He'd only just put the glass to his lips when his sister let out a gasp, her eyes going wide and immediately flashing to him. Her shocked scent was overwhelming, concern an underlying note, and Derek felt his features arrange into a puzzled frown. But he never got the chance to voice his confusion, to ask what the hell happened to cause such a reaction in her. His ears were pricked by the sound of his boss letting out a choked “son?”

Derek's head snapped towards the archway, his body freezing all over, heart stopping in his chest. No way. No. Fucking. Way.

“Hey, Pops,” came an achingly familiar voice, sounding small, a little thick, slightly rougher than Derek had remembered. Yet it still had the same effect, still caused his stomach to flip and his heart to pound at double its usual speed. “Merry Christmas.”

The Werewolf's eyes were wide as they slid over to Laura, who was still staring at him with that same look, mouth agape. “Did you know?” he asked shakily, his own voice thick and rough. Hell, all of him was shaky, his hand trembling where it pointed to the living room. Everything in him felt out of place, jumbled about, shaken and stirred and all mixed up and there wasn't a damn thing he could do but sit there stunned and frozen, staring at his older sister as she reflected the emotions back at him.

She absently shook her head with slow motions, licking her lips before speaking. “I swear to god, Der, I had no idea.”

He nodded dumbly once, believing her, not even needing the ability to hear her heart or scent her emotions to know it was the truth. Without thinking, he rose to his feet, knees knocking his stool back with a scrape against the wood floors. He was vaguely aware of Laura saying his name, of her slowly and cautiously mimicking his movements but it was lost in the buzz of his brain, in the millions of thoughts racing around, in the way that same familiar voice was saying “hey, Scotty” like it hadn't been missing for three fucking years.

“Der,” Laura called once more, this time with more conviction, yet he still ignored it, simply held a hand up at her to tell her to shut it, that he was fine, to just stay put.

He walked with controlled movements, his every step deliberate, not drawing attention to himself as he went through to the living room in a normal pace. He made his way through the crowd, bumping people as he went, only pausing when he reached the edge of the gathering and was finally able to get a good look at what was going on.

Not that he didn't already know.

But seeing was believing and...well, that was kinda bullshit really. Because he was seeing it, yet he wasn't entirely believing it. Because no way would Stiles Stilinski just randomly show up three years to the day after Derek had last seen him and act like nothing was going on.

Then again, it was very Stiles-like to behave that way.

The teen—no, he'd be twenty-one now... The young man peeked over his best friend's shoulder where they were still embracing, whiskey eyes automatically finding Derek's. Scott seemed to sense it, given the way he stiffened up then automatically relaxed, pulling away from the other man with a clap on the shoulder and a wide, lopsided grin. The Werewolf stepped away, blending into the crowd, allowing Derek to get a full-length look at Stiles.

At Stiles.

His buzzcut was gone, hair longer and messily styled, although Derek wasn't sure if it was done on purpose or if he'd rolled outta bed that way. A scruffy—and patchy—beard covered the lower part of his face, framing a shaky smile, dark circles under his eyes—although those weren't new. He was dressed in khakis and an olive green sweater that he was filling out better than ever, arms seeming bigger, chest more defined, muscles formed that hadn't been there from lacrosse or cross country. He looked older, more mature, a grown-up, a man rather than the teenager that Derek had fallen for.

He looked better.

Stiles swallowed hard, licking his lips before awkwardly waving at the older male. Anxiety rolled off him, mixed with joy and happiness and love, scents Derek had constantly inhaled when the two of them were together. That nervous smile was still there when he whispered out a soft “hey, Der”, words meant just for the person they were directed at, not caring—or maybe just not noticing—the countless other people gathered around them and watching the scene unfold.

Derek felt his wolf losing its mind, howling, jumping for joy, insisting that the human part walk over and hold the new arrival. And, God, did Derek want to. He wanted to wrap Stiles up in his arms and just hold him, keep him close and safe. He wanted to bury his nose in the younger man's neck and inhale his sent with every breath before rubbing all over him and mingling their scents together. He wanted to steal the guy away and hold him hostage in his bed where they could tangle up in each other and he could make sure Stiles could never get away ever again. He wanted...

Ignoring everything and everyone, Derek turned around and stalked right out of the room, barreling over people in his bid to get to the kitchen.

Stiles called out his name, stupidly following him, demanding that he wait, that he come back, that “dude, seriously, can we just talk for a minute?”

Derek suddenly stopped in the middle of the kitchen, turning so fast that he was nearly run into by his ex. He let his eyes glow gold, felt his fangs drop as he leveled his glare at the younger man. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw clenched tight, every muscle in his body tensed up, as he got right in the other man's face.

“Fuck you, Szczesny,” he snarled, somehow still managing to perfectly pronounce his ex's real name through his fangs.

Stiles reared back at that, jaw going slack, eyes widening before dropping to their usual state. His shoulders drooped as his body went limp, the fight gone out of him, lips pressed tightly together as his scent turned sad and self-deprecating. The rest of the crowd went silent, a couple dozen heartbeats and an Elvis Christmas song the only sounds in the room.

A small hand gently laid itself on his left arm, tugging at it slightly, and out the corner of his eye, Derek could see Lydia peering up at him with hard eyes and pursed lips. “Come with me,” she ordered, tugging his arm once again, not seeming undeterred by the fact that he wasn't budging.

The Werewolf continued to glare at his ex, noticing Parrish over the guy's right shoulder, eyes glowing orange, his mother over Stiles' left shoulder with her fingers by her mouth, brow furrowed with worry. It was then that he noticed the crowd that had formed, some in the kitchen, most stuck in the living room, gathering around the archway between the two rooms. Everything suddenly felt like too much again, his chest getting tight, heart pounding, skin tingling. And when Lydia tugged on him for a third time, stating his name like a warning, he let himself be led away to a staircase at the side of the kitchen.

But not without one last glance at Stiles, still standing there looking all the world like a kicked puppy with his downturned eyes and scruffy hair and hands shoved in his pockets. Derek felt a little guilty at having been the cause of his upset, his wolf demanding he go over and make everything okay, make his Mate happy again. But he didn't. Because what Stiles was feeling at that moment was nothing compared to what Derek had suffered over the past couple years.

Three years to the fucking day since Derek had last laid eyes on him.

What the fuck?

Chapter Text

Derek's old bedroom had been converted into a guest room soon after he'd moved out. The hunter green walls he'd had were painted to a lighter mint shade with white trim, cherry furniture decorating the space, curtains and bedclothes a deep plum color. It was nice, the colors complimenting each other well and it spoke of his dad's eye for design and style.

Bed was comfy as hell, too, an absent thought that ran through Derek's mind as he sank down onto the mattress, burying his face in his hands as he practically slammed his elbows onto his knees. He let out a prolonged sigh, shoulders slumping with the exhale. God, and he'd thought things had been overwhelming enough for him lately. Now this on top of it? And, of course, it was happening while at a huge freaking party with half the county attending.

Okay, not half the county, but still. A whole lotta people that usually didn't hang around the house. Especially not at the same time.

The door closed over, shutting off all the noise of the party down below, Derek remembering how all the bedrooms—and the office downstairs—were soundproofed for privacy. Necessary in a house full of Supes with incredible hearing and he'd been thankful as hell when he was a teen.

And now he was thankful as an adult as his mouth started moving without him being conscious of having sent the commands.

“I really didn't need this right now,” he muttered, heels of his palms digging into his eyes. “I can't handle it. I should just leave, go home, get as far away from all this as possible.”

Lydia let out a humming noise, heels clicking on the hardwood floor before thumping softly on the white shag rug the bed was seated on. “Oh yeah, totally. It really worked well for Stiles, ditching everyone who cares about him without any real explanation. Brilliant idea.”

Derek lifted his head to her, brow furrowed as he gave her the most unamused scowl he was capable of. She simply stared back down at him with an arched eyebrow, Parrish's dog tags still around her neck, arms folded over her emerald green satin party dress, hip cocked out, pink lips pursed. She was back in her old high school Queen Bee mode and there was no winning against her.

Didn't mean he wasn't gonna try.

He let out a sigh as his hands dropped between his knees. “I hate when you get passive-aggressive and manipulative like that.”

She shrugged a shoulder, not all that bothered by it. “I'm only manipulating you into doing the right thing. Which, in this case, is staying here and talking to Stiles.”

His head bobbed with a snort, jaw tensing up, eyes narrowing. There was no way that was happening. Not after what Stiles had done to him, had done to all of them. And really, he'd pretty much expressed himself with the f-bomb and use of the man's real name.

“I have nothing to say to him,” he ground out, fingers curling into fists then unfurling.

Lydia bobbed her eyebrows in a dismissive manner, licking her lips before speaking. “Stiles probably has a lot to say to you though,” she pointed out with an arched eyebrow. “You should get him to explain everything to you.”

He let out another snort, feeling his chest tighten up as he remembered the last moments he'd spent around his ex, the way Stiles had freaked out before practically shoving his clothes on then running out. Literally. His head hung from drooping shoulders, fingers twisting together amongst the fabric that covered his palms, his next inhale a shaky one. “I doubt he wants anything to do with me,” he mumbled, voice sounding small and far away.

A small laugh gusted out of her. “Right. Totally. That's why he followed you into the kitchen calling your name, because he wants nothing to do with you.” More sarcasm and he could practically feel the eye roll she was more than likely giving him. She sighed out softly before moving to sit on his left, hands folded neatly on her lap. “Hear Stiles out,” she suggested softly, sweetly, gently pushing him in the direction she wanted him to go rather than the blatant shove of her earlier passive-aggressive words. “If for no other reason than to get an explanation for why he left so you can find some sort of closure and not spend the rest of your life wondering why he up and bailed like that.”

Derek smirked, turning his head to the side to eye her with a cocked eyebrow. “You just want me to talk to him so you can find out why he left.”

She gave him a vague head shake with pursed lips, trying to deny it, but her scent gave away that he'd caught on to ulterior motives. His smirk grew into something cockier and she rolled her eyes at him yet again. “Partially,” she admitted, flipping red curls behind her shoulder, dog tags jingling with the movement. “But mostly for you. You've become a good friend and I want you to be happy.” At his raised eyebrows, she huffed. “As happy as you can be without your Mate,” she corrected with the barest amount of snark possible.

A sad smile curved up the corner of his lips, a warm feeling growing in his chest. He'd forgotten what it was like to have good friends like Lydia, to have someone genuinely care about him the way she did. He'd had it with his family, of course, that unselfish desire to make sure others were happy before themselves, but he'd shut all that down the second he'd estranged himself from them. But there Lydia was, with that unconditional care for him because they were friends. Not because he was Stiles' ex and they had something in common, not because he was the partner and friend of her boyfriend, but because of their own relationship forged on their own terms.

She was a good person and he was damn sure lucky to have her in his life after years of just using people around him then pushing them aside once more.

“Thanks,” he whispered to her, smiling shakily at her.

Lydia waved him off with a flick of the hand, shaking her bangs out her eyes and turning up her nose. “Don't thank me. Just admit I'm right and do as I say,” she dictated, the tiniest smirk playing on her pursed lips.

A laugh made its way out of him before he even realized it, followed by a semi-sarcastic “Yes, ma'am” as he rose to his feet, Lydia following suit. “But seriously,” he began, tone grave once more. “Thank you for being there for me all this time.”

She shrugged again, arms folded under her chest, green eyes peering up at him. “I'll admit I was a little selfish when I first showed up at your place,” she confessed. “I mostly needed to just rant and I knew you'd be able to relate and understand. Going to Scott would've been too awkward, since I was always more of Allison's friend than his, but—” She paused, licking her lips before pressing them together in a hard line, shrugging and shaking her head. “I knew you'd need an understanding ear, too, and I wanted to be that for you.”

A grateful smile formed on Derek's lips and he enveloped her in a hug, feeling her return the embrace with her arms around his waist and her head turned to the side as it pressed up against his chest. “I'm glad you showed,” he confessed, chin resting on her red hair. “You're a great friend and Parrish is a lucky guy to have you.”

They parted and she smiled softly up at him. “No,” she argued quietly, eyes twinkling and her face lit up from within. “I'm the lucky one.”

The comment caught him off guard, Derek more used to Lydia's cocky attitude. He'd been expecting a “duh” and a gesture to herself, comments over how any guy would be lucky to have her. But her belief that Parrish was better than her and that she was the one blessed to be with someone so great just backed up Derek's argument that his partner was indeed the fortunate one in their relationship.

Nothing against Parrish, of course. Guy seemed like a pretty good catch given his Boy Scout manners and boy-next-door grin.

“C'mon,” Lydia instructed with a nod to the door. “Let's find Stiles so you can get some answers.”

“For both of us,” Derek added on with a cocked eyebrow, smirking at her.

She played dumb, turning on a heel towards their exit, lips pursed as she shook her head. “No idea what you're talking about.”

“Suuure,” he placated, following her out the bedroom and down the stairs, where they parted ways.

Derek tracked Stiles' scent to the office, the scents of his mom and the sheriff hanging around the door frame, alerting him to the fact that they'd also recently entered the room. Must've been a serious conversation if they'd chosen the only soundproofed room that wasn't a bedroom. Although really, given the fact that Stiles had suddenly shown up outta nowhere after having told his dad he wasn't coming home for the holidays, it was completely obvious that it was a serious convo. The guy had a lot of explaining to do to a lot of people, not just Derek. He had to be ready to dole out a whole lotta apologies.

Part of him knew the polite thing to do would be to just walk away, let them wrap up their convo and wait his turn. But the other, much bigger part of him knew that if he did that, he'd never work up the nerve to talk to Stiles. He'd come up with excuse after excuse for why he couldn't do it, why he wouldn't do it. He had to just get it over with while he still had the nerve—and Lydia on his back.

Not that she'd relent if he backed off right then. She'd be on him worse than ever if he didn't go ahead and talk to Stiles at that very moment. And a relentless Lydia turned into a scary Lydia and the last thing he should—and would—ever do was piss her off, lest he wake up with her screaming over his death. A death that would come at her hands.

A shudder raced through him at that thought and he shook it off. Lydia wasn't gonna kill him because he was gonna go ahead and talk to Stiles, just get it over and done with, like ripping off a band-aid. Sure, might be a little rude, but his mom would understand and the sheriff would have other opportunities to talk to his son. If he knew Stilinski the way he believed he did, then he knew the older man would not only insist his son stay in his old room, he'd drag him there in handcuffs if necessary.

Really, this was Derek's best shot at talking to the guy, while they were in the same building and the Werewolf still had the nerve. He needed to take the chance while he had it.

That belief in mind, he grabbed hold of the knob and twisted, pushing open the door as he knocked.

Conversation ceased the second he stepped inside, hand still on the knob, taking in the scene before him. His mom was standing between two high backed leather chairs, arms folded over her black cocktail dress. The sheriff was seated behind the desk, hands clutching at his head as his elbows rested on the mahogany table. Stiles was standing to the side of it, arms wrapped around himself, head ducked and lips pressed into a hard line. Everyone was tense, not a relaxed muscle in the room, and the air was thick with anxiety, confusion, and an underlying note of joy.

Super serious conversation then. One Derek was both glad and saddened to have not been a part of.

His eyes flicked between all three occupants, lingering more on his mom and the sheriff, feeling his own wolf growing agitated by the heavy emotions filling the space. “I can come back,” he offered, throat tight, pointing behind himself with his thumb.

His mom looked at him with a tight-lipped smile and watery eyes and he couldn't help the flashback of when he'd last seen that same expression on her face three years prior when he'd shown up for Christmas festivities, right before she'd told him Stiles had been there but left.

Not a good sign.

“It's fine, sweetie,” she rasped before clearing her throat, something that made his brow furrow in confusion. His mom only ever sounded like that when she was really upset, usually after having just watched Titanic for the five-hundredth time. It was a sign that she was holding back tears, that she was pretending everything was okay when really, she was on the verge of bawling over Jack's death again. He took a few steps towards her on automatic, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“We'll just give you some space.” She gave Stilinski a pointed look, and he nodded dumbly in return.

The sheriff rose to his feet in slow motions, pushing himself up with his hands on his desk, limbs unfurling like they were having trouble with the action. His blue eyes were distant, unseeing, focused on nothing as he scuffed his way over to the door and out of the room, not acknowledging his deputy as he passed by.

Derek's curiosity grew, further fueled by the whiff of shame that he scented from Stiles' direction. He glanced over to the other man to witness him sniffing, thumb rubbing at his nose, shoulders hunched further. Turning back to his mom, he frowned at her, wanting to ask what the hell was going on but knowing she wasn't the one she should be directing the question to.

As if sensing this, she gave him another smile, this one more genuine, more sympathetic than the lie that had previous curled her lips. She rubbed his arm as she passed him, closing the door and shutting off the sounds of the party.

Leaving Derek alone with Stiles.

Funny how that would've been the best thing ever three years ago, how the sheriff wouldn't have left without a pointed look at both of them, wordlessly conveying that he had a gun and a magazine of wolfsbane bullets should anyone get out of hand. He wouldn't be able to leave without his sisters giving him knowing smirks, ribbing him endlessly throughout the night, teasing him about his scent and his hair and “aren't hickeys supposed to heal on us, bro? He must've gotten you good, huh?”

Now, however, Derek wanted to be anywhere else but there. It was more awkward than his encounter with Scott, his wolf pacing about, agitated and anxious. And its human counterpart couldn't blame it really, kinda wanted to do the same thing. He could barely breathe for all the tension in the air, could only inhale the increased panic and worry, could feel it cause every muscle in his body to tense up.

Stiles finally lifted his head and looked in his direction, fake grin curling up the side of his mouth momentarily. His arms dropped to his sides, one hand then rubbing the back of his neck as the other gestured to the other occupant. “You, uh,” he started then stalled, clearing his throat. “You look good.”

What. The fuck.

Derek cocked an eyebrow as his arms folded over his chest, fists held between his biceps and his chest. “Seriously?” he snorted, unable to believe that after all that time, that was what Stiles chose to lead with.

Full lips parted, mouth hanging slack as his hands fell to his sides with a pair of smacks. “Uh, no?” he asked more than answered, shrugging and shaking his head, mouth working as he tried to speak. “I mean, yeah. I mean, you do look good so I was serious about that, but that wasn't wha—”

“Why are you here?” the Werewolf interrupted gruffly, effectively shutting him up. Experience had taught him that once the younger man got started on a ramble, there were very few ways to actually get him to stop. His previous move had been to kiss the guy, but that was obviously no longer an option. Before that, he'd just slapped a hand over his mouth and scowled when Stiles retaliated by licking his palm. Not an option either since Derek was in no mood to get any closer.

Mostly because he knew that if he got within arms reach of the guy, he was hauling him in close and not letting go.

Definitely not an option.

Stiles' eyebrows raised in surprise before dropping back down. “I was here first, but you wanted to talk so.” He wrapped it up with another gesture towards Derek before shoving both hands in the pockets of his khakis.

The older man rolled his eyes. Should've expected that response really and he cursed himself for not having done so. Then again, he was completely out of practice with Stiles interactions so it wasn't like he could be blamed really.

“I meant 'here in Beacon Hills',” he pointed out with an arched eyebrow that told the other male that he knew that's what Derek had meant and the Werewolf wasn't impressed with his fuckery.

“I've been staying with Noshiko in New York,” he explained, fists jerking in his pockets at an attempted gesture, his habit of speaking with his hands still unbroken. “When she said they were headed here to visit a friend, she invited me to come along and I took her up on it.”

Derek let out a laugh of disbelief, mouth hanging open as his jaw worked around and he shook his head. He felt his chest get tight and his stomach twist up, his ex's confession like a wrecking ball to the gut. He felt pissed, hurt, offended, a million things at once, his heart broken all over again as the truth slapped him in the face. “So, you only came back because other people were?” he double-checked in a venomous tone, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

“No,” Stiles quickly objected, hands flying out of his pockets then almost immediately dropping. “I mean, I guess, kinda, but—”

“Did you plan on ever coming back?” he interrupted again, shrugging and shaking his head with his lips turned down at the corners.

“Yes!” the other man answered immediately, face so completely earnest it rivaled Scott's puppy dog looks. His heartbeat was steady, scent neutral, everything indicating he was being totally honest.

Yet the Werewolf still couldn't accept it as the truth.

He shook his head, pulling his arms in tighter to his body. “I don't believe that,” he stated flatly. “I can't believe that. Otherwise you would've come back sooner and on your own, or you would've kept in contact or at least given a reason for leaving in the first place.”

Stiles didn't respond, but the wince on his face as he turned to the side, refusing to make eye contact, said volumes. Derek was right and the other man was pretty much admitting it by not arguing.

Feeling like his point was proven, the older man changed the subject, keeping his narrowed eyes locked onto his ex. “Why did you leave?” he asked point-blank, only halfway expecting an answer.

Stiles cleared his throat, bouncing on his toes a bit before settling, head tilted down as he started a staring contest with the floor. He licked his lips, rubbed the back of his neck, hunched his shoulders up around his ears, clearly stalling. Derek opened his mouth to bark at him to quit and just fucking talk already, but it was rendered unnecessary by Stiles actually making words.

“I needed to get away,” he said tightly, arms wrapped tight around his lean frame, putting new—or at least new to Derek—biceps further on display. “I had to figure some stuff out.”

Derek scoffed, causing the younger man to raise his head and stare at him with a frown. “Why couldn't you wait until you'd graduated high school?” he demanded, taking a step toward him. “Why couldn't you explain that to anyone? Why did you just up and bail on everyone?”

“I panicked!” the other man snapped, stepping closer as well, hand flying to his hair and tugging. “I wasn't thinking clearly. About anything. I just wanted to go.” His hands flew in the direction of the door as he wrapped up his louder than necessary explanation.

“You couldn't have panicked that much if you were able to come here and talk to my mom and write letters saying not to look for you,” Derek pointed out, his own volume rising with the human's.

Stiles' eyes widened at that, his scent shifting to something shocked at the mention of the female Alpha. Apparently the guy hadn't figured that Derek would know he'd spoke to his mom, that he wouldn't figure shit out or somehow be made aware of the fact that the human had stopped by and chatted with her.

And he'd always thought Stiles was smart.

“I stopped by here Christmas Day, thinking I was gonna spend a nice day with my family, celebrate the holiday, maybe talk to my mom about what happened between us the night before and how I can fix it, but instead I got a whiff of you and was told that you left.” He paused his rant, shoving a hand through his hair before letting out another dubious laugh. “I talked to my mom yesterday about all this and she told me that she tried talking you out of leaving, that she told you that you should at least explain things to everyone, to me, yet you didn't. Was that panicking, too?”

His anger was a palpable thing at that point, so intense he could practically smell it on himself. Or at least his mind believed that he did. He could feel his hands shaking with it as he crossed his arms again, his muscles so tensed up that the action was more difficult than it should've been.

The fingers on Stiles' right hand wiggled against his thigh, his scent closed off, his features flat but eyes turned down in sadness. “It's complicated,” he murmured with a rough edge to his voice, bobbing his eyebrows in a dismissive move.

Derek reined in his anger, knew that throwing around his Werewolfness wouldn't help the situation, would only remind the human about why he'd disappeared in the first place. It was better to approach everything calmly, rationally, like the adults they both were at that point. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar. That old adage existed for a reason.

“Then uncomplicate it,” he pleaded softly, removing the scowl from his face and looking at his ex with a softer expression.

The younger man rounded the corner of the desk and sank down into one of the chairs, burying his face in his hands. A sigh left him, his body sagging, reminding Derek of when he'd seen Stiles in a similar position during one of his many visits to the late Claudia Stilinski at the hospital during her last days.

“I'm sorry,” the human muttered out, words muffled by his hands. “I thought it'd be better that way, to just have a clean break and be done.”

For the second time, Derek felt the blow in his solar plexus, his breath leaving him in a rush. His eyebrows raised as his eyes widened, lips parted but no words coming out. He was out of them. He had no clue what to say to that, other than “ouch”. Until realization set in...

“So,” he started softly, quietly, not even sure if he was even being heard. “Does this mean you actually weren't planning on coming back?”

Stiles' scent shifted to something shameful and embarrassed and upset, hands dropping between his knees, fingers wringing together as a leg bounced up and down. “Yeah,” he breathed out, lips pulling back on a wince, head hanging off slumped shoulders.

Double ouch.

His earlier anger came roaring back with a vengeance, muscles tightening up once again. He shook his head as he stared down at the floor, breathing out a “wow” without even being aware that he was speaking. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked calmly, turning his head back to his ex, his volume rising as he continued. “How could you bail on everyone like that? On your dad, on Scott, on Lydia, on me? Didn't I mean anything to you?”

Stiles' head snapped up and at Derek at that, body scooting forward to the edge of the chair with a creak in the leather. “Of course!” he cried out, body twisting to face the Werewolf better. “Derek, you mean everything to me. Still do.” His whiskey eyes flicked back and forth between two green ones, pleading with him to believe the words that'd been said, brow pulled into a begging expression.

“Then why did you leave?” he demanded, not letting the heat leave his words.

“I told you,” his ex replied softly, body slumping again. “I was going through some shit.”

“Shit you didn't think I could help with?”

“No, you couldn't.”

Derek's emotional pendulum swung from anger back to disbelief and he wondered if he'd ever be able to experience a feeling other than those two ever again. “We were supposed to be partners, Szczesny—”

“Stop with the 'Szczesny',” Stiles interrupted in annoyance, tensing up as he glared at the older man.

“—We were supposed to have each other's backs,” the Werewolf went on in his own aggravated tone. “We were supposed to help and support one another no matter what.”

“And I told you, you couldn't help with this,” his ex barked back, just as agitated. Served him right, really.

The response was just as honest as before, just as vague as before, and Derek found himself scrambling once again to try and decipher the words, to read between the lines. There was a lot he wasn't saying, that much was obvious, and any number of things could be found between each syllable that was actually spoken. But one thought stood out in Derek's mind, something that only seemed clear to him because he'd been there during the catalyst event that had led to Stiles ultimately leaving.

“Because I'm a Werewolf,” he concluded flatly, quieter than his previous statements, not needing to put it into a question because he knew he was right.

Stiles had the decency to let the tension leave him, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck before gesturing to the other man. “Yeah.”

It was what Derek had believed, but hearing it confirmed felt completely different. It was a nail being slammed into place on the coffin holding the remains of their relationship. It was a wolfsbane bullet straight through his chest but not instantly killing him, poison slowly seeping throughout his body and slowly ending his life. It was his soul being torn in two in such a visceral way that Derek expected to look down and be able to actually see someone reaching inside his chest cavity and ripping part of him out with their own claws.

For some reason, he thought of that stupid car insurance ad and its idiotic claim of “did you know that words really can hurt?”

He sure as hell knew now.

Nodding slowly, he licked his lips as a calm sort of resolve settled over him. His arms dropped to his sides, a rough “right” leaving him, swallowing hard but unable to rid himself of the swelling around his throat. “Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be human enough for you,” he stated thickly, feeling himself go numb all over. “Sorry my being a Supe made you panic so much that you had to run all the way to New York to get away from me and my freakish anatomy.”

His anger took a second—or fifth—turn behind the wheel that was controlling his body, turning him around and making him stalk towards the door. His name was called out behind him and he looked back with his hand on the knob to see Stiles now standing by the chair, hand reached out towards him before he dropped it.

Derek tightened his grip, twisting the knob but keeping the door shut. “I need to get away and figure some stuff out,” he snarked with a sneer, using the other man's earlier words against him. “I'm going through some shit.” With that, he flung the door open and strode out, knocking into the small beta he'd spotted by Malia earlier. The lanky one got in his face, gold eyes glowing, but Derek just glared back with his own wolf eyes, adding in a flash of fang and a snarl. The lanky one backed away with his arm around the short one.

The older Werewolf snorted before stalking his way to the kitchen to grab a beer, grateful the room was empty and the path to the fridge clear. Only he never headed that way. His ears caught on to the song playing in the background, Taylor Swift covering “Last Christmas” and he mentally cringed at the fact that he was able to relate to that one, too. Weren't Christmas songs supposed to be merry and bright and not give a voice to the bullshit that was his romantic life?

Switching tactics, he slipped out the door and onto the back porch, the cold December air hitting his heated skin and making him shiver. No, not shiver, he was shaking, had been for quite some time. He wrapped his trembling hands around the wooden railing, exhaling long and hard, breath clouding in front of his face. Hanging his head, he tried in vain to calm his racing heart, to still his shaking frame, to bring himself back to something resembling normal. Wasn't happening, probably wasn't gonna happen for a while. He was too tired, too emotionally wrecked, too messed up for it to happen. He'd been slowly going through the wringer for the past couple weeks with this case, only to be shoved back in and wrung out at twice the speed that night. He wasn't entirely sure he could take much more.

The door opened, momentarily letting Taylor's saccharine voice leak out as she crooned about giving someone her heart “but the very next day, you gave it away”. Relatable. Totally fucking relatable.

His mom's scent reached him before she did, leaning a hip on the railing to his right. “You okay?” she asked softly, concern dripping off every syllable.

Derek dropped onto his forearms, sighing as he stared out at the forest laying beyond the stretch of winter dead grass. “Not really,” he muttered honestly, playing with the thumbhole in one of his sleeves.

She nodded as she took in his words, wrapping her arms around herself. “Did Stiles tell you anything?” Her voice was curious, making conversation, but there was still that inflection that told him she already knew what it was that Stiles could've possibly told him and that she wasn't just digging for information about what secrets he'd spill.

“He panicked,” he ground out, jaw clenching as his eyes narrowed. Total bullshit really. Stiles had panicked hundreds of times over the years, had suffered countless attacks right after his mom had died, had a few in front of Derek that had left the Werewolf feeling helpless and whimpering over the other man's distress, even before he'd been aware of the Mate thing. Yet despite the numerous occasions where Stiles had panicked, not once had he run away further than the Hale home.

“Did he tell you why he panicked, explain everything fully?”

Derek snorted out a “no”, head bobbing with the noise. “Didn't need to. I figured it out on my own.”

His mom's scent turned sadder, along with a slight note of he could only describe as a mother's need to fix her children's problems, since he only ever smelled it when she was doling out advice or bandaging up boo-boos. He pushed himself back upright as she opened her mouth to speak, turning to her and cutting her off before she even got a word out.

“I can't handle this right now, Mom,” he confessed lowly, letting the apologetic part of him leak out into his own scent. “It's just too much and I. I need to head home.”

She hid her hurt behind a soft smile, nodding as she licked her lips. “I understand. I'm just glad you came at all.”

The corner of his lips turned up in a small smile of his own, realizing how momentous a thing their current discussion was. Because after three years of nothing, they'd now had two conversations in two days, Derek finally letting go of what had held him back and letting him have his mom once again. And in turn, she'd gotten her son back and had him around for part of a holiday event and family tradition. Who knew? Maybe the next year he'd be around for more of them, would join them for Thanksgiving, then picking out the tree and helping decorate the house. He'd take part in watching Christmas movies and drinking hot chocolate and decorating cookies that always somehow disappeared into Malia and Cora's stomachs before they were finished.

His smile grew a little bit more, something warm growing in his chest despite the numbness he felt everywhere else. “I have to work tomorrow,” he informed her, scratching at his jaw. “But I'll try and stop by at some point.”

His mom's grin turned into something blinding, blue eyes sparkling in delight as she held both of his hands in hers, thumbs rubbing over the fabric that covered his hands. “Breakfast is at nine as always, our big lunch at two,” she reminded him, voice wavering, thick with emotion, scent overjoyed and bringing him back to his childhood. She'd always smelled that way during the holidays, loved being surrounded by family and loved ones, loved seeing everyone's excitement as they opened their gifts, loved the traditions and the true meaning of the holiday: the togetherness and the spirit of giving.

He nodded, feeling a small amount of peace settle within, knowing that what he was doing was right and that from here on out, things were gonna be okay. “I'll see you at breakfast,” he promised, kissing her on the cheek before bidding her goodnight.

She didn't let him leave that easily, pulling him into a hug and wishing him a merry Christmas, “even though I know you aren't that big a fan of the holiday anymore”. He returned the sentiment, kissing her cheek once more before finally getting away, walking along the wraparound porch in order to get to the front of the house.

His escape from the property itself didn't go easy either.

Stepping foot onto the dead grass, he heard his name being called out as a demand from behind, freezing him in place. Anyone else he would've ignored and kept going, but there was no escaping Lydia Martin.

He turned to see her stomping down the wooden stairs, arms swinging with her determined strides as she stomped her heels on the way over to him. He noted goosebumps on her arms, visible to his wolf eyes as she got closer and he pointed to her bare skin with a confused frown.

“Where's your jacket?”

“Shut it, Hale,” she barked, pulling to a stop and putting her hands on her hips as she glared up at him. “Information. Now.”

He sighed, looking around for an escape and realizing he had none. Supe speed or not, getting away from her was only temporary. She'd track him down and hound him for answers and he'd never get a moment's peace ever again in his life.

“He said he panicked,” he replied flatly, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

The look she gave him was completely unimpressed, lips pursed in annoyance, tongue smacking against her palate as they parted. “Panicked?” she deadpanned, arms folding over her chest and hip cocking out. “He panicked and ran off to—” she trailed off, shrugging and shaking her head as she gestured about. “Where exactly? Where the hell has he been for three freaking years and why is he lying about this panic crap?”

“New York.”

“He's been in the same region as me this whole freaking time?!” she screeched, arms flying about, dog tags jangling against her chest. Derek held his own limbs up in front of his face in a defensive manner, waiting until she'd calmed down before dropping them. She huffed then gathered herself, flicking her hair over her shoulder, smoothing her dress down, adjusted the dog tags so they were laying right and Parrish's info was on display for all to see. Lastly, she put a sugar sweet smile back on her face as she acted like she hadn't just flipped out in the middle of the Hale's front lawn turned parking lot. “Did he explain why he panicked?” she asked tightly, like she was trying to keep it all together when she was dying to throw another fit.

“No,” the Werewolf answered, hands back in his pockets as he peered down at her, hating that he was having to repeat himself. “And he didn't need to. I figured it out.”

She gave him an expectant look, eyes wide as she tilted her head towards him. “Well?” she prompted after a long silent moment. “Explain it to me.”

He felt his ears heat up as he started blushing, the sensation spreading to his cheeks. “Yeah, I'd rather not.”

She rolled her eyes, lips pursed again, eyes narrowed as she slipped back into Queen Bee mode. “I don't care what you'd rather do. Tell me.”

“Lydia, seriously, it's not—”

“Tell me!” she demanded, stomping her foot.

“I knotted him and he freaked, okay?!” he blurted out, immediately looking around to make sure no one else was around to hear him before ducking his head in embarrassment. God, it was even worse to say it out loud than it was to just know it in his heart. He felt like crawling into a hole lined with mountain ash and shoving wolfsbane down his own throat.

Lydia remained frozen for a long moment, silent, eyes narrowed as she thought it over. “You,” she started then paused. “Knotted him?”

He nodded, scratching at his jaw, head still ducked down slightly. “Yeeeeah,” he stretched the word out, grimacing. “It's a thing Weres do when they—”

“I know what a knot is, Derek,” she interrupted snappily, rolling her eyes again. “I'm not an idiot. I've seen porn.”

His eyes went wide at that, finding it hard to believe that someone as innocent looking as Lydia, with her big eyes and porcelain features, would watch porn, much less knotting porn.

She shrugged a shoulder at his reaction, clearly not bothered by his shock over his shattered illusion over her innocence. “I just can't understand how you hadn't knotted him before,” she stated, sounding genuinely perplexed as she gestured with an open palm. “I mean, I thought it wasn't something you could control between Mates.”

“It's not,” he agreed, hands back in his pockets. “At least not during full penetrative sex, and since it was our first time going all the way, I—”

“Your first time?”

Seriously, was there anything he could say at that moment that she would just accept as the truth?

“Yes, Lydia, our first time,” he ground out, scowling. “And this conversation is difficult and awkward enough without you interrupting to fact-check.”

She gave another not-bothered shrug, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “Just be glad I'm not Erica. She'd be asking for full blown details and questioning whether or not Stiles' moles continue onto his dick. Which, by the way,” she added on, holding a hand up. “I don't need to know.”

“Good, because I wasn't about to tell you.”

The truth was there weren't any on Stiles' actual cock, but a cluster of some on his groin that Derek once connected together with a marker to make a star. He didn't want anyone to know that though, thought that little grouping was their own secret and Stiles had smiled at the idea of it being known between just the two of them.

Thinking about his ex's dick at that moment wasn't helping make things feel any less awkward though.

Lydia refolded her arms, rubbed her lips together to smear her lipstick about then pursed them thoughtfully. “So,” she began, smacking her tongue against her teeth. “What makes you think it was you knotting Stiles that caused him to freak out so much?”

Derek grimaced as he looked away to the side, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He was really hoping that subject had been dropped when she brought up Erica and the fact that she wasn't as invasive as the blonde Werewolf. But no. Her resilience and determination to get to the bottom of things was in full force and he wasn't leaving without her knowing everything, no matter how personal or how difficult it was to say it out loud.

But it was Lydia, a female who'd become his best friend, an extra sister who wasn't as obnoxious or as annoying as his real ones. He could trust her with pretty much anything and everything. Besides, maybe saying it out loud would be good for him, help him get it off his chest and relieve some of the tension and guilt he'd been carrying for years. And it would help her, too, allow her to better understand why her best male friend had run off and left them all high and dry, help her gain her own closure for that part of her life and allow her to figure out where exactly she wanted to go from this point on.

“Because,” he sighed out, ducking his head, hand still working the back of his neck. His face was on fire with embarrassment and his stomach was rolling with anxiety over what he was about to say. “When I knotted him. He, uh, he freaked. He jumped outta bed and started yelling about how there wasn't supposed to be a knot.” He paused, shoving his hands in his pockets as he swallowed hard. “His scent was terrified and confused and just. Wrong.”

He heard Lydia's glossed lips part to talk but her voice wasn't the one that spoke next.

“It wasn't your knot I was freaking out about.”

Lydia cried out in surprise as her entire body jerked from it. She spun around so fast that her hair flew in Derek's face as his own head jerked up to witness the owner of the voice making his way towards them from the porch stairs. Stiles remained the picture of calm, though his shoulders were hunched and his hands were shoved in his own pockets, Vans sneakers scuffing along the dead grass as he walked. His scent carried an overwhelming amount of shame, causing Derek's brow to furrow in confusion, the expression only increasing as the other man's words sunk in.

“Wasn't your knot.”

The lone female in their trio hit Stiles in the chest with her balled up hand, repeating the action as she stomped a foot. “Dammit, Stiles, don't scare me like that!” she chastised, glaring up at him.

He glanced quickly at Derek before smiling apologetically down at her, the small curve of his lips softening his face. “Sorry, Lyds.”

“Oh no,” she warned, pointing at him with her left hand as her right went to her hip. “Don't you dare 'Lyds' me, not after you scared the crap outta me and not after you ran away to New York and didn't think to look me up at MIT or drop me an email to say you're okay or even say goodbye—” She trailed off as the anger left her, words no longer filled with venom but breaking with sadness. Her scent was full of sorrow, reminding Derek of the way she'd smelled when she first showed up at his loft, mascara running and smeared about her watery green eyes, the salty scent of sadness clinging to her like her Chanel perfume.

The shame in Stiles' scent intensified, lips moving as he muttered out apologies to his now crying friend. He wrapped his arms around Lydia's shoulders, hauling her in for a hug she didn't fight off but didn't quite return, instead burying her face in his chest with her arms tucked in between them. He ducked his head, pressing his lips to the top of her hair as he continued to apologize, twisting them both back and forth in a soothing manner.

Derek saw his chance, the two caught in their own bubble of tears and anger and remorse. Without making a sound, he slipped away and into his SUV, starting it up and pulling away without looking back.

Except for a quick glance in the rear view mirror, where he caught Stiles watching his Toyota drive off, still holding Lydia close.

Didn't matter. Derek didn't wanna talk to him, had heard enough, had gotten the answers he'd so desperately needed for the past three years. Just sucked that the truth coincided with his self-deprecating theories: Stiles had left because Derek was a Werewolf and he couldn't handle it the way he'd previously believed he could.

But god, how he longed to be wrong for once in his forsaken life.

He really should've expected that dream to happen. And while normally he woke up before the worst part, that night, he wasn't so lucky.

Also should've been expected.

He ground his cock further into his Mate, felt it being squeezed by Stiles' tight inner-muscles, making him groan against the back of his neck. The younger man was on slightly raised knees, hips moving back to meet the Werewolf as he thrust in, helping bring them together. His head hung from shaking shoulders, entire body trembling as he gasped from being filled once again, breathing out a swear.

Derek felt a semi-familiar pulse around the base of his cock, recognized it as his knot starting to plump up. He'd experienced it a few times before, the first time Stiles had sucked him off, the first time he'd rimmed Stiles, the first time he'd blown Stiles. In those circumstances, he'd been able to hold it off—although it was difficult as hell and his wolf wasn't all that happy about it—but this time he couldn't. He'd heard all about it during Supe Sex Ed, knew it was because he was with his Mate, that his wolf recognized his partner as such and was trying to breed them the way its instincts demanded it do. It was why he'd never formed a knot with anyone else he'd slept with in the past but now couldn't stop it from forming.

His eyes drifted closed as he gasped against Stiles' sweaty skin, dragging his nose up along his slender neck and nuzzling into his hair, inhaling his pure scent. His hand tightened its grip on the teen's hip, wolf relishing the fact that his human Mate bruised and didn't heal like he did, that the mark would stay there and show everyone that Stiles was taken and that no one should touch.

“Oh fuck, baby. Wanna knot you so bad. Wanna fill you up with my come and keep you full, hold it inside you with my cock as I tie us together.”

The human's next groan was the loudest of the entire night, Derek's name slipping past his lips, hips lowering as he ground into the mattress for more friction. Apparently it wasn't enough, since one of his hands slipped out from under the pillows where it'd been gripping the edge of the mattress and slid under his hips. Derek lifted himself slightly to give him more room to work, wishing he could see his Mate touch himself, wishing he could see his face as he came apart—his favorite facial expression that Stiles wore—wishing he could see the thick ropes of come spurting out his cock. But knotting was better this way, easier, since they'd be tied together for twenty minutes.

His wolf howled with pleasure, the knot grinding at the tight rim and trying to push in. It wasn't quite fully plumped up yet, wouldn't be for another couple thrusts, and then they'd be tied together.

Stiles trembled more, gasping his next inhale, the air held in his lungs as he tensed up all over. His scent turned into panic, anxiety, fear, confusion, and his hand shot out from underneath his body towards the side of the mattress, grabbing hold of the edge.

“Stop!” he cried out, using his hold to pull himself away.

Derek immediately froze and lifted himself away, cock slipping out until just the head remained inside. Confusion furrowed his brow as he looked down at the leaner male, watched him trying to slide to the edge of the mattress.

“Stop, stop, God, safe word! Safe word, safe word, why don't we have a fuckin' safe word?” he rambled, despite the fact that the Werewolf had done exactly what he'd asked and had completely pulled out of him, despite the fact that he was now curled around the side edge of the mattress.

The older man tentatively reached towards the other, wanting to soothe away his fear and make him feel okay again, make him feel safe. But he wasn't entirely sure how welcome his touch was, wasn't sure about the protocol involving safe words—since he'd never had to use one—wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch—even if it was just an innocent hand on a shoulder—or if he was supposed to completely back off.

Dropping his hand down onto the mattress, he settled for cautiously calling the teen's name, pushing himself into a more upright position.

Stiles didn't respond, just shook his head as he sat up, too, his back to Derek. “I gotta go,” he murmured, reaching down onto the floor and snatching up his boxers. “I gotta go, I need to go, I gotta go.”

“Stiles?” he repeated, more firm this time, puzzled frown remaining as he watched his Mate snatch up his jeans and tug those on. “What's wrong? What's going on?”

Again his inquiry went ignored, the teen stalking about the room in search of the rest of his clothing, snagging socks and shoving them in his pockets without care, white cotton sticking out haphazardly. Next was his graphic tee, which was quickly put on with jerky movements, as well as backwards and inside out. Not that Stiles seemed to notice, still moving about in a rushed daze, muttering to himself about things being wrong and how he needed to go.

“All wrong, this is all wrong,” he murmured to himself, hand rubbing over the top of his buzzcut before he jerked his head violently. “Not supposed to happen, not supposed to be like this. So fucked up.”

“What's fucked up?” Derek asked, feeling his heart sink further with each word. His chest was tight, wolf whimpering over its Mate's displeasure, and his stomach was rolling around in nauseating waves. “Stiles, just tell me what's going on? Let me help fix it.”

“You can't,” Stiles finally acknowledged him, head shaking repeatedly, snagging his flannel shirt from the floor on the side of the bed where Derek was seated. “It's not supposed to be there, not supposed to happen.”

Fed up with the mutters and the non-answers, the Werewolf reached out and snagged the teen's arm, holding him in place. Stiles' wide eyes locked onto pleading green ones and Derek could hear his heart pounding wildly from fear—but not from him, since it'd been at that rapid pace since the moment he'd cried out for Derek to stop—could scent his anxiety as strong as it had been right before a panic attack. But this time the older man was prepared, knew how to handle them, could calm his Mate down if necessary.

“What's not supposed to be there?” he calmly asked, rubbing his thumb along soft, pale skin, hoping his action was soothing but realizing there was no change in the other male's temperament. If anything, his panic kicked up a notch and his heart was pounding louder than ever.

He didn't answer immediately, turning his head away and pressing his lips into a hard line. His leg shook with impatience, face getting splotchy, his body still trembling but no longer from desire. No, this was worry and fright and something being completely and utterly wrong.

Derek's wolf got louder with its howls, its emotions being echoed by the human half of him. He wanted nothing more than to fix whatever it was that had caused his Mate to become so agitated, so upset. He wanted to soothe frayed nerves and calm racing hearts. He wanted to make everything okay and make sure that it never happened again.

But he couldn't do any of that until he had a fucking clue as to what was wrong in the first place.

“Stiles?” he prompted softly, gently tugging at his Mate's arm, peering up with pleading eyes.

“A knot, Derek,” Stiles ground out, flicking wide whiskey eyes down to him, swallowing hard. “There's not supposed to be a knot.”

It was like a slap in the face and a kick in the nuts all at once, the Werewolf immediately releasing his grip. Stiles didn't hesitate, didn't wait to explain, just strode off towards the door, snatching up his keys, phone, and shoes as he went. Not that he needed to say anything else or explain what he'd meant. Only one of them could form a knot and it was clearly something the human wasn't ready to deal with, couldn't deal with. It was a blatant reminder that despite physically looking alike, they weren't the same species. Derek was a Werewolf, a Supe, a monster and an abomination and whatever other shit anti-Supe groups spewed during their rallies and their meetings and in their propaganda reading materials. It was easy to ignore the fact that Derek was something other when he and Stiles were together, and chances were, the human did pretend that his boyfriend was perfectly normal and human. He'd grown up around the Hales and had become so accustomed to them and their behavior that he'd forgotten that they weren't the same species as him.

But a knot pressing at his ass was undeniable, unignorable proof that his boyfriend wasn't the same as him, that he was a monster and an abomination and could easily shred him on a whim. It was easy to act like he could handle it when his boyfriend's Werewolfiness wasn't shoved in his face, but when faced with the reality of it all, he realized he was kidding himself in that belief and ran off.

Derek smeared a hand over his face, looking down at his still naked frame. His cock had gone limp at the first inhale of his Mate's distress and for the first time, he found himself hating the organ. He snatched the top sheet and flung it over his lap, hiding the angering body part, staring out at an empty apartment.

How the hell had it gotten so fucked up so fast? Things had been going perfect between the two of them, the transition from friends to lovers seamless and easy. Derek had dropped the M-bomb before Halloween and Stiles had smiled brightly at it, taking to the term with flourish and using it as much as possible. Stiles had been accepted to Stanford and was making plans to drive back home every weekend to visit Derek and his dad. They had taken their time with the physical stuff, Stiles less experienced and more nervous because of it, Derek determined to make it perfect and not anger his future boss—aka Stiles' dad, the sheriff.

But when they'd finally started fooling around, everything just fit together and the two of them were never happier. They still took it slow, even if the teen had been annoyed by it, snarking that snails mated quicker than they did. Yet when it came to going all the way, the Werewolf let him decide when it would happen, knowing someone's first time was a huge deal and he didn't want his Mate regretting anything between them. And Stiles took his own time with that, waiting until he was one-hundred percent sure he was fully ready for that step, presenting Derek with an early Christmas gift of lube and condoms and the statement that tonight was the night, right before they headed to his family's Christmas Eve party.

He thought back throughout the entire night, searching for signs that maybe Stiles wasn't as ready as he claimed he was. But he found nothing to even hint at that. In fact, it was the total opposite. Stiles had been nothing but a tease all night, grinding up against Derek when they danced together, accidentally-on purpose rubbing up against the Werewolf's crotch with his hand, his leg, his ass, his aroused scent so strong even Malia had demanded Derek take the human home and just do him already.

They'd gotten naked in a hurry when they'd finally arrived at the loft, but after that, everything was at Derek's glacial speed—at least according to Stiles' grumbles. He'd blown his Mate as he fingered him, stretching him with four fingers until he came all over his stomach, Derek growling in pleasure. He'd licked the leaner male clean, let him recover from his orgasm, knew he was sensitive and that his recovery time wasn't as fast as the Supe's. And when they'd finally gotten to the main event and Derek had slid his cock inside him for the first time, it was still slow and easy, hyperaware of every hitch of his breath, every small noise, every blip of his heartbeat, every twitch of his muscles. He'd been overly cautious to the point of pain for both of them until they were both out of minds with arousal, being a thousand-percent sure that Stiles was being ready and prepared and okay with everything they were doing.

And he had been. Until the Werewolf's knot had appeared.

Derek flopped back onto his bed with a harsh sigh, hands clasped over his forehead as he stared up at the exposed beams of his ceiling, plan formulating in his mind. Tomorrow—or later that day, since it was well past midnight at that point—he'd stop by his family's house as planned for Christmas festivities and try to talk to his mom in private. It was gonna be embarrassing as hell, probably as awkward and as shaming as when she'd walked into his room while he was jerking off and massaging his knot when he was thirteen and popping knots was just another part of Werewolf puberty. But he needed to tell her the gory details in order to get her advice, so he could figure out how to really fix things between him and Stiles.

Because things were gonna be alright. It was still salvageable. Stiles needed some space to calm down and get his head straight, running off during a panic not a new thing for the human. And once his head cleared, Derek would be able to talk to him and they could work things out. Maybe they could have sex and Derek would just not press his knot inside, just hold it in his fist and make do with that. It'd worked for him as a teenager; surely it'd still work with his Mate's scent in his nose and body under or on his.

Yeah, it was all gonna be okay. After all, it was Christmas. What could possible go wrong on Christmas?

Derek woke up in an empty apartment, wolf eyes glancing about, noting the snow falling outside the giant windows to his right. He blindly grabbed his phone off his nightstand, blinking at the bright screen as he checked the time. 1:27 am.

He'd last seen Stiles exactly three years ago at that very minute.

At least, it would've been true had the guy not shown up earlier that night at his family's party.

1:28.

It was officially Christmas Day, but he didn't feel any more jolly than he had back then, when he'd been sick with worry that he'd completely screwed things up between himself and his Mate yet still hopeful that he could fix it all. Young and naïve he figured, placing the phone back on the nightstand, face down.

Flopping back onto his bed, he laid with one hand above his head, the other stretching along his side. As shitty as he'd felt back then, he'd give anything to go back, to do it over. He'd chase Stiles down at his house—if he even let the human leave in the first place—get him to explain further, talk it out and come up with some sort of solution between the two of them, one that didn't end up with Stiles running off to New York because he'd been so weirded out by his boyfriend's anatomy.

“There's not supposed to be a knot.”

“It wasn't your knot I was freaking out about.”

He flipped over onto his stomach, grabbing the other pillow and tucking it under his arm, cuddling it close. He wasn't even gonna try and think about what that meant, wasn't gonna think about anything. He was gonna shut his eyes and shut off his mind and fall asleep so he could wake up rested and refreshed and ready to take on the rest of his life. He'd gotten the closure Lydia had suggested he'd get, had gotten answers to three year old questions, had the peace of mind to move on with the rest of his life and no longer worry about the past.

His wolf whimpered in the back of his mind and he mentally told it to shut up also. He was too busy trying to ignore how his plan felt like a gigantic lie.

Chapter Text

The front yard of the Hale house wasn't full of cars anymore, yet the damage to the lawn was incredibly noticeable. Tire tracks everywhere, grass uprooted, dirt clods kicked up and scattered about. His mom always brushed it off with a comment over how “that's the price you pay to have such a festive party” while his dad would be pissed and grumble all spring as he reseeded his lawn, the damage then twice as bad after his Mate's New Year's soiree.

Derek parked his SUV between Argent's black one and Cora's Camaro she'd begrudgingly inherited from Derek. He no longer could stand the thick Stiles' scent still embedded in the fabric of the seats while Cora hated the smell of sex that permeated the interior. She frequently brought up how much money she had to shell out to get the interior cleaned several times before it smelled normal to her Werewolf nose. He'd just scowl and tell her she should be grateful she got such a nice car for free.

He was dressed casually in jeans and a gray henley, uniform hanging in the back of his Toyota so he could just change at work, figuring he should play it safe and not wear it to a breakfast full of Werewolves. Not a good idea to risk stains like that.

His boots left marks in the dusting of snow that had fallen overnight, jaw cracking as he yawned widely. He never did manage to fall asleep after he'd woken up from that flashback, mind racing with a million thoughts regarding a million things.

It had been three years to the day since he'd last seen Stiles when he'd showed back up again. Hell of a coincidence and an ironic sort of anniversary gift. Although it made sense that Derek would get a fucked up gift for a fucked up anniversary.

How much better looking Stiles had gotten over the past couple years. Not that he wasn't already beautiful in Derek's eyes, with his pale skin and lean frame, those brown eyes he could get lost in and those moles he would count when they were being particularly lazy. But as he'd grown during his absence, he'd gotten more attractive somehow. He was more confident in himself, more mature. The longer hair suited him better and made him appear more grown-up. The hint of more developed muscles under his olive sweater made him more appealing, like an especially shiny gift Derek couldn't wait to unwrap.

And, god did he wanna unwrap Stiles.

Which brought him to his next repeating thought, fantasies over what exactly Stiles would look like underneath his clothes, how it would compare to how he looked before. He wondered if his body would react the same way it had before, if all of his weak spots remained the same, if his ears were still sensitive, if nips to his hipbones would cause his breath to hitch, if bites to his neck and throat made him groan and go limp beneath—and sometimes above—Derek.

Then he'd curse himself for actually wondering that and for wanting to find out first hand. He was gonna move on with his life, forget all about Stiles and what they'd had, what they were to each other. He knew he was never gonna date again and the idea of no-strings-attached flings left him feeling empty and hollow—and a little queasy—but that was fine by him. He honestly didn't wanna be in a relationship if that's how it would end for him.

Part of him would argue that he'd totally be in a relationship again if it was with Stiles and he'd begin the cycle of hating himself all over again.

It'd been around four or so when he'd finally shifted his thoughts to something else. Desperate for a distraction, he started mentally working over the case again, trying to find a connection between Haigh and the people responsible for all the other murders. Obviously it was some sort of anti-Supe group, some extremists who were taking things too far in their quest to purify the Earth and get rid of all the abominations—good luck with that though, really. But there was no way to get Haigh to talk, not without offering him a deal and giving him the chance to save his own ass, something that rubbed Derek's fur the wrong way. He didn't want that asshole getting away that easily with what he did to his friend, their co-worker. Haigh deserved to rot in prison.

With all of that running through his head, he had gotten zero shut eye and his eyes were half-closed as he made his way up the porch steps. He needed to get some sleep, some good sleep, but doubted it would happen anytime soon, not with this open case. Maybe he'd sneak in a power nap or two at work, crash on a bunk in the crypt like so many other deputies did.

Sad how that lame little idea became his motivation for getting through breakfast and the rest of his day.

He scuffed his feet on the doormat, specifically wiping off mud and snow on Santa's face out of spite, raising his fist to knock. Only he never got the chance. Just like a couple days prior, the door opened before he made contact, except this time, it wasn't his mom.

Derek's eyes went wide, then down, coming across a young petite Asian female, black hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, sections hanging down around her face. Her slender frame was covered in black leggings and an Iron Maiden baseball style tee he knew was Malia's, recognizing the hole near the bottom hem that Cora had torn as she'd tried dragging the Werecoyote across the room when they were teens and acting like idiots.

Interesting.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, wondering who she was, what the hell he'd missed over the past three years to where he had no idea that his cousin had a girlfriend, one who was spending the holidays with their family.

Her almond eyes widened at him, lips parting before she relaxed into a grin, white teeth on full display. “You must be Derek,” she commented, smelling happy and content—and a lot like Malia. “I'm Kira. Yukimura. I'm in Beacon Hills with my family visiting your family for the holidays. But you already knew that.” She frowned, shaking her head, before grinning up at him again.

Derek slowly nodded once, barely able to keep up with her ramble, only taking about half of it in. “Yeah,” he stated flatly, thinking it seemed like the right response.

She nodded, still grinning, messy hair bouncing with the action. Nothing else was said as she stood there, one hand on the door frame, the other still on the knob, completely blocking the way.

Right.

He cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows pointedly, growing uncomfortable under her prolonged, silent stare and grin. “Can I come in?” he inquired, scratching his jaw then pointing behind her.

“Oh!” Kira's eyes widened once again, panic flooding her scent as she quickly slid to the side in sock covered feet. “I'm so sorry. I didn't even realize I was still in the way. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” he eased her, forcing a small smile on his face as he entered the house, inhaling the scents of his mom's cooking.

“I just got caught up staring 'cause you seem so different in real life compared to all the pictures.”

He paused at that, turning to her with a confused frown. “Pictures?” he questioned, figuring out the answer pretty much as soon as he'd asked it. The house was full of them; on the mantle, the fridge, on the wall running along the bottom of the stairs and up them. Their family's entire history was on display for all the world to see, no matter how embarrassing the image—or how depressing they would later turn out to be.

“Yeah,” she replied, grinning again as she closed the door over. “Stiles showed me a whole bunch he had on his phone and his laptop. You just seem different in them. But I guess it's because they're three years old. Although you were a lot happier in them. Now you seem really depressed and out of it, not to mention exhausted looking.”

He stood there stunned, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, not entirely sure how to react to that. It wasn't exactly an insult, but being told you seem depressed and out of it and tired—no matter how true—wasn't a compliment either. And while the truth did hurt sometimes, what she said hadn't been all that harmful and was actually quite innocent when compared to shit his sisters pointed out about him on a near regular basis. Especially Laura. Tact wasn't exactly her thing at times.

“But Stiles talked about you all the time in New York,” she continued, folding her arms over herself in a casual manner, absently rubbing at the elbow length sleeves of her borrowed tee. “How much he loved you, how much he missed you, how he was doing all this for you as much as it was for him, how—”

“Wait a minute,” he interrupted, holding a hand up to stop her newest ramble. “Doing what for me?”

“You know,” she replied with another grin. “The whole trai—”

Derek never found out what he was supposed to already have known, Kira being interrupted once again, this time by his mom calling out that breakfast was ready. She grinned at him once again, eyebrows bobbing in an excited manner before she bounded through to the dining room. The Werewolf remained in the same spot, staring wide eyed at nothing as he tried to figure out what the hell just happened.

“Derek?”

He turned his head to his name, noticing his mom standing in the threshold of the dining room, eyebrows raised in expectation, dressed in a burgundy tee and matching plaid flannel pants. He'd forgotten about the PJs at the table for Christmas breakfast thing, glanced down at his jeans and felt overdressed.

“Don't even worry about, sweetie,” his mom waved him off, obviously sensing his concern. “Just come eat, all right?”

He nodded dumbly before scuffing his way through, finding an empty seat between Laura and Malia, their respective lovers on their other sides. Great. Sandwiched between two couples.

His eyes came across the empty seat across from him, between his younger sister Cora and an older Asian gentleman he assumed was Mr Yukimura. He couldn't help but think of the people who could possibly fill that hole, Allison being an obvious option given the fact that her dad was sitting two seats away from Derek, on his dad's left and across from his Uncle Peter. The other clear possibility, of course, being a young man who was more than likely at his own dad's place like Derek figured he would be, but the Werewolf wasn't gonna think about that.

At least he was gonna try not to think about that.

His mom stood from her place at the head of the table, clinking her butter knife against the side of a wine glass filled with orange juice—although there was a chance there was something a little stronger mixed in with it. A hush grew over the table, all eyes on her as she smiled pleasantly down at everyone.

“First of all, Merry Christmas!” she rejoiced, grinning wide with twinkling eyes as everyone cheered in response. “Secondly, I would like to thank our friends the Yukimuras—” she stated, hand on the back of the chair to her left, an Asian woman around her age seated there, directly across from her daughter. “—for spending this holiday with us and for helping us out so many times over the years.”

The woman—Noshiko, Derek figured her to be—smiled just as pleasantly back up at her, reaching back and clasping her hostess' hand. “Our pleasure,” she replied genuinely. “I know that traditionally foxes and wolves don't get along, but I'm glad to say that for our family, that isn't the case.” She spread her grin around the group, settling on Derek and giving him a pointed look that he couldn't quite decipher. He supposed it had to do with Parrish and the fact that his partner was now a Japanese fox spirit, the two of them not altering their friendship in any way despite the change in species.

Although what kind of asshole did that was beyond him.

“Agreed,” his mom backed up her guest, turning her attention back to the group at large. “I'm so glad and feel so fortunate to have so many cherished people at our table and beyond pleased to see how our group has grown, to look at faces who weren't here last year now joining us for this time of togetherness and love.” Her eyes landed on Derek, giving him a special smile that spoke of how she was overjoyed to see him in particular.

He didn't hesitate to return it with a small one of his own, nodding at her in acknowledgment to show that he read her message loud and clear and that he returned the sentiment.

“Here's hoping that next year, we have even more loved ones sitting here, huh?” At that, she winked over at her eldest daughter, Laura giving her a wide-eyed glare back as her Mate hid his snicker behind his hand. The Alpha laughed before raising her glass higher. “To love, family, and this most wonderful time of the year. Merry Christmas!”

The cheer was echoed by everyone before they all clinked glasses and drank. Derek was glad to taste that his contained just orange juice since he had to head to work later on, scenting champagne in his sister's flute. She shrugged at his judgmental look, muttering that she wasn't pregnant yet. He ignored that statement, facing straight ahead, eyes once again coming across that empty chair. His mind went back over his mom's hope of having more people joining them at their Christmas breakfast and he felt an aching in his chest as he remembered a mole-littered face grinning back at him over the oak furniture as he shoved too big bites of pancake in his mouth, syrup dripping down his chin and powdered sugar covering his lips.

He glanced around the table, noticing his mom chatting with the Yukimuras, Cora and Laura giggling over something, Peter, his dad, and Argent in the midst of some discussion, Malia and Kira not so surreptitiously flirting. In typical fashion, Derek was the odd one out, surrounded by people who all had someone.

Maybe he should have something more potent in his drink.

Breakfast was awkward, people tiptoeing around certain topics. No mention of Stiles was made, but it was clear he was on the minds of practically everyone at the table. Peter had even gone so far as to ask the Yukimuras where their own houseguest was, yelping immediately after and glaring at Laura, who simply sipped from her glass and acted as if nothing was amiss, her own unique way of admitting guilt.

There was also no mention of Derek's sudden reappearance at the table or why he hadn't attended the past couple years. Everyone already knew the reasons—except maybe the Yukimuras but no one was rude enough to point it out at that time—and to bring it back up was cruel.

His dad had mentioned hearing on the news about another body having been found, asking Derek if they were any closer to finding the killer. The deputy had shaken his head, telling them the department was looking for a group rather than one man, only giving that much information out because these were people he cared about and he wanted them to be careful. A discussion had broken out over what kind of assholes would do such a thing and why, everyone chiming in with their own creative words for the perps.

Well, everyone except Malia and Kira, who were still in their flirty, giggling world, and Argent, who sat there staring in his glass with narrowed blue eyes, lost in thought. Derek thought back to the night before when Laura told him that her Mate had been acting distant and strange lately and he felt that same urge to talk to the man, to see if he knew anything.

The opportunity presented itself when breakfast was over. Derek helped carry dishware through to the kitchen, dropping it off on a counter near the dishwasher, knowing better than to try and put it in the machine. His mom was already getting into it with Laura over how to load it, the younger female preferring it organized with everything in its proper spot for optimal cleaning while his mom tended to just stick things in wherever and hope for the best.

The debate left Laura's Mate available though and Derek took the chance to approach him, asking if they could talk for a minute in private. The request had Laura pausing what she was saying to look over at the two men, eyebrow arched in question. Argent waved her off with an easygoing grin, then nodded at Derek, now wearing a tight-lipped smile, blue eyes taught around the edges.

The two headed to the office, Derek shutting the door behind them for privacy. Argent leaned back against the window frame opposite the entrance they'd just used, arms folded over his navy blue thermal, eyes narrowed analytically. It didn't surprise the Werewolf that the former Hunter chose to stand by the only other exit, his training still deeply ingrained and dictated his movements.

"So," Argent began in his usual rough voice, eyes locked on the younger man. "I have a feeling I know what you wanted to talk to me about."

That fact didn't surprise Derek either and he nodded in response, crossing his own arms. "You know something relevant to my case," he stated, not bothering to phrase it as a question since they both knew it was true. Instead he kept his narrowed eyes locked onto the other man and his ears focused for any signs of a lie.

The former Hunter's face remained stoic as always, cold eyes giving nothing away. "I have a hunch," he admitted flatly, head nodding to the side in acknowledgment. "But that's all it is."

Not a lie, at least not something he believed to be anything except the truth. He'd heard of people who'd learned how to twist words so it was no longer a falsehood or how to believe in something so much that it came across as the truth. Former Hunters were notorious for knowing how to cheat the system and fool even the keenest Supe ears. There was no real way to know if Argent was one of those talented liars or if he was completely forthcoming with info.

A noncommittal hum was Derek's first response, keeping his senses attuned. "Were you planning on sharing this with the department? Or were you gonna keep it to yourself and conduct your own investigation out of some well-meaning but ultimately ignorant and illegal attempt at redeeming yourself and your family for past sins against Supernaturals?"

The human's heart bumped up its speed momentarily before he got it back under control, proving that Derek had hit the nail on the head with that one. Cocking his chin out, Argent stared down the younger man with a clenched jaw and puffed out chest.

"There was nothing to tell," he ground out, scent carrying a slight hint of anger, although it wasn't clear if it was due to being found out or from being told he was being an idiot.

"But if there was?" Derek pressed, not letting up. Because this guy clearly knew something, hunch or not, and the deputy was gonna use everything in his power to find out what it was.

"Then I would go to the Sheriff's Department and tell you or Stilinski," Argent grit out through clenched teeth, fighting them with everything in his power. Because he was being idiotic and foolhardy, believing he could solve this mystery by himself. Because so far, this case was being handled by the Beacon County Sheriff's Department and the SRB had nothing to do with it. For him to be involved meant he was doing it on his own, with no permission or official obligation. And the only reason why he'd get himself involved was because he knew something that would help crack the case wide open and put a whole lotta people behind bars.

And the asshole was keeping it to himself.

Although really, one reason why he'd do that was because he was one of those committing the crimes and he was trying to think up a way to cover his own ass. Probably a shit thing to think about one's brother-in-law, but if there was one thing Derek had learned over the past few days was that no one was as they seemed and that no one was to be trusted.

Family included.

Or at least family through Matings.

"But like I said," the human continued in his gruff voice. "All I have is a hunch. Until I have solid evidence, I'm not about to waste your department's time and resources on a wild goose chase."

The Werewolf sighed, nodding, thinking it made sense. Argent had been nothing but pro-Supe, even before Mating one. Derek was being completely paranoid in his beliefs that anything the older man was saying were untrue, were part of a ruse to take them all down from the inside.

Okay, he hadn't entirely thought of that until that moment. And now that the idea was in his head, it was all he could think about, that his brother-in-law had insinuated himself into their family under false pretenses, that it was all an elaborate plan to take down the most powerful Werewolf family in the county—if not all of Northern California—from the inside out.

"I can give you this though," the former Hunter started then paused, pushing away from the window and rolling his shoulders, almost like he was preparing for battle when really he actually appeared more relaxed and casual than before, heartbeat backing it up. "I overheard McCall talking to Deuc and it sounds as though McCall is planning on coming down here and taking over the case. And soon."

Derek only just managed to suppress a growl at the Agent's name, settling for a scowl. "Does Laura know about this?"

Argent shook his head, scratching his whisker-covered jaw. "She's in Research and History, not a Field Agent. She wouldn't be called upon to work the case so there's no point in telling her."

The Werewolf shifted his features to a look of skepticism, paying more attention to what hadn't been said rather than what had. "But you've been called, haven't you?" he inquired, pointing a finger at the other male in accusation.

"He called me yesterday asking what I knew and if we should get involved."

Shit. Not good.

Derek ground his jaw as he glanced about the room, mulling things over. McCall wouldn't have asked for a local Agent's opinion unless he'd already made up his mind regarding their next course of action. Even if Argent told the other man to keep out of it, local authorities had it, McCall wouldn't listen and would instead come in flashing his badge and shoving his giant pompous nose where it didn't belong.

Prick.

Fuck, Derek hated him.

"How long until he shows?" he asked, voice thick, causing him to swallow hard.

"No clue," Argent responded honestly. "Trust me, I don't want him here any more than you do. The second I find something out, I'll let you know."

It was as good as the deputy was gonna get and he knew it. Hell, the guy had already been generous with info, giving him and his department a heads-up on incoming federal assholes, even though he most likely wasn't supposed to breathe a word of it—especially if he wasn't supposed to know about it in the first place.

Derek's thanked Argent for the warning, getting a head bob in response, before leaving the room. A lot more had been added to his already overflowing plate, more questions raised than answers given, and if it weren't for the notice regarding the SRB's possible future involvement, Derek would think the entire conversation had been a waste.

Then again, maybe not, he reconsidered as he paused by the living room archway, watching his pajama clad family as they sat around passing presents amongst the group. Smiles were on every face, laughter accompanying the softly playing "White Christmas"—the Bing Crosby version, of course—and a great sense of joy and peace was felt in the room.

If Argent were to try and hurt any of these people, he'd have to go through Derek first.

He watched the man with narrowed eyes as he sat on the arm of the chair his Mate was already seated on, Laura beaming up at him when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Derek was gonna have to keep a close eye on him. Better safe than sorry.

Derek left his family's home soon after his convo with Argent, claiming he had to get to work. While the statement had been technically true, he actually wasn't scheduled to start his shift for quite some time; he just wanted to head to work to get an early start and a jump on the case before McCall and the SRB showed up.

His mom was saddened by his departure but let him go, thanking him profusely for coming as she and her Mate loaded the back of Derek's Toyota with several boxes of wrapped gifts—"back logged from years of absence," she'd explained—and a cinnamon roll coffee to go. He surprised her by giving her a hug, then one to his dad, Laura then hollering from inside that if Derek was giving away hugs, "then that prick owes me about fifty!" before running outside barefoot in her pajama shorts and tank, nearly tackling him with the force of her embrace. Cora simply punched him in the arm, and Malia hugged him tight and lifted him off his feet, limits not really a thing she catered to after years of rebelling against her foster parents and Peter never giving rules as a messed up way to make up for not being around the first decade or so of her life.

The uncle in question waved goodbye with his own mug of coffee as he stood on the porch, Argent tensed up from his position a foot or so away. Derek found Kira spying from the window, giving her a wave and making her go wide-eyed and dive behind a curtain from the embarrassment of having been caught.

Derek headed straight to the station, changing in the locker room as he'd planned then delving right into work. He read through Haigh's LUDs twice, noting the same numbers showing up repeatedly. Grabbing the case files, he compared the dates and times of the murders with those of the phone numbers, finding too many synchronous events to be a coincidence.

Yanking open his desk drawer, he pulled out a couple different colored highlighters, striking through the phone numbers he wanted to focus on.

It was an hour later when the sheriff showed and Derek had taken over a chalkboard, a timeline of the murders drawn across it, taped up photos and phone records where needed. He finished scrawling out info before putting the piece of chalk down and dusting his hands off, peeking around the board at his boss.

"Mornin', Sheriff."

Stilinski grunted, rolling his eyes, holding a travel mug up to his mouth. "Not until I have another gallon of this stuff," he grumbled, tipping it back and drinking long and hard, still scuffing his way to his office.

Derek chortled, nodding in agreement. "Fresh pot in the break room," he called over the sounds of his boss depositing his things on his desk and hanging up his jacket.

"I'll have to take you up on that later." A yawn broke up his statements, Derek taking the opportunity to look over his board and timeline. "Rough night, was up late."

The Werewolf grimaced slightly at that, understanding completely what the older man was referring to. Clearly he'd been up late talking to his son, discussing his time in New York and why he'd left in the first place. Most likely not a fun conversation for anyone involved but a necessary one nonetheless.

He felt his chest get tight once again, a hollowness inside that ached in a way like nothing else. Clearing his throat, he tried to focus on his board once more but couldn't, was too lost in thoughts about Stiles and Stilinski and their convo and what exactly it would've entailed. How would Stiles explain to his dad that nearly being knotted caused the reality of his boyfriend's species to come crashing in and he'd panicked so bad he'd run off? Even if he didn't bring up the knotting thing, just admitting that being with a Werewolf was too much for him to handle would be difficult—and potentially misinterpreted as species-ism.

Not good, even without the current Supe-targeted murders happening.

As much as Derek didn't wanna think about his ex, his curiosity was piqued and he couldn't help but wonder how the Stilinski father-son discussion had gone down.

"I take it you talked to Stiles then," he commented with a wince, hating himself for sticking his snout where it didn't belong.

A grunt was the sheriff's initial response before he came out of his office, dragging his feet while making his way to his deputy and standing on his left. "For several hours," he informed, pausing to sip his coffee. "But the fatigue is worth having answers and no longer worrying what exactly I did wrong in order to have my only kid run away."

Derek's wince deepened, pulling at his whole face, and he ducked his head to hide it, working the back of his neck with his hand. "Yeeeeah," he stretched the word out, reluctant to say what needed to be said. "I'm sorry about that."

Confusion overpowered the sheriff's scent, his head turning to the younger man with a puzzled frown. "Wait. Why would you be sorry? Not like you told him to leave. From what I understood, you were just as in the dark about everything as I was."

The Werewolf nodded, head still ducked. His boss might've been right to a degree, but Derek had always had a theory regarding the reasons behind Stiles' sudden departure, a theory he never shared. So while he might've been in the dark, he at least had a lantern of sorts and he hadn't bothered letting the sheriff borrow any of that light. Pretty rude, especially considering the fact that he was the cause of his son's running away.

"Look, son," Stilinski began as he clapped a hand on his deputy's shoulder, his scent not turning salty with sadness or regret over using the term on the other man. "Let's just move on. Stiles is back for at least the rest of winter break and he's agreed to come back and visit more often, no more disappearing with no contact." A grin formed on his face, scent turning joyous. "No more worrying about him or what happened in the past."

Derek nodded more but didn't completely agree. He was always gonna worry about Stiles, regardless of how much he told himself he was moving on and no longer gonna think about him. And he was especially always gonna worry about the past, about his role in Stiles' leaving. That guilt still ate at him every day, despite the fact that it wasn't something he could've controlled, and he knew for a fact it wasn't ever gonna go away.

But he was gonna pretend, just like he had been, was gonna continue to act like he had no part in all of it and was another innocent victim in all of it and that his own anatomy hadn't scared off his boyfriend.

"It wasn't your knot I was freaking out over."

"Why don't you tell me what all this is?"

Derek lifted his head at that, thankful for the subject change. Scratching his jaw, he glanced over his board to gather his thoughts, the sheriff dropping his hand and sipping his coffee. "I made a timeline of the murders and compared it to the LUDs from Haigh's cell," he explained, pointing at the phone records taped along the bottom. "There's two numbers that show up frequently, both prepay cell phones, untraceable. But he calls one on a pretty regular basis, at least once a day, and there were several calls right after the ME believes the Wolcotts were murdered and leading up to Parrish's abduction."

"You're thinking those two are members of the group responsible for the murders," Stilinski correctly deduced, staring at the board with narrowed, analytical eyes, bottom teeth on display.

"Exactly, but there's no way to know who they are solely based on this."

The sheriff nodded, pointing to a photo of a brunet male's driver's license taped to the right of the phone records. "And who's that?"

"Charles Brunski," Derek explained, pausing to drink his own coffee, wiggling the cup when it emptied to double check there was nothing left. "His was another number that showed frequently in Haigh's LUDs, more so the day Parrish was taken. He also happens to be an orderly at Eichen House Mental Hospital." At that, he turned and gave a pointed look at his boss, eyebrows raised as if to wordlessly point out that there was no way it was a coincidence that Parrish had been escorted out the hospital by someone dressed like an orderly.

An impressed pout formed on Stilinski's face, head bobbing as he took it all in. "That's good work, Hale," he praised, saluting him with his travel mug. "Put Brunski's photo in an array, show it to Parrish. And while you're at it, see if Eichen House has any employees matching his description of Haigh's accomplice at the fire, make an array of them, too. Maybe we'll get lucky and get 'em all at once."

Derek bobbed his head in acknowledgment before heading back to his desk and setting to work finding other random men who fit Brunski's description.

"And Hale?" Stilinski called, waiting until the mentioned male lifted his head before continuing. "Do me a favor?" Another pause, this time Derek cocking an eyebrow to show he was listening. "Let Stiles tell you what happened. The whole thing. Got it?"

The deputy slowly nodded once, the words sounding more like an order from a superior than a suggestion from a family friend. But his boss gave him a friendly smile none the less—although one slightly more tired than his usual wide grins—before shuffling off to the break room, muttering about coffee.

Derek glanced into his own travel mug, scowling at its emptiness. Was gonna take a lot more than coffee to get him through that day—and to get him to ever have anything to do with Stiles ever again.

The drive back to his building was quick and uneventful, as was the trip up to Parrish's apartment. Only one heartbeat was audible through the heavy metal door, along with the sounds of "A Christmas Story", Derek grimacing at the memory of Scott and Stiles arguing over whether or not it truly was possible to freeze your tongue to a pole, both ending up stuck to the "PRIVATE ROAD" sign at the end of the dirt road that made up the Hale driveway. Derek had been the one to find the then thirteen year old idiots and rather than getting help, he stood there and laughed, deciding to teach them a lesson.

Shoving the memory aside, he banged on the door, getting a clear "c'min!" as a response. He did as directed, sliding the door shut behind himself, soon finding Parrish on the couch in a pair of sweats and a Marines t-shirt. The smell of coffee hit the Werewolf's nose first and he mentally cursed himself for leaving his half-full mug in the car. Only to start swearing out loud when the other scents of the apartment hit him.

Chanel perfume, jasmine, sweat, lust, come...

A lot of come...

"Fuckin' eh, Parrish," he muttered, covering his nose with a hand. "How many times did you guys do it?"

His partner flipped him off from his spot on the couch, cheeks going red from blushing. "Apparently being a Supe comes with a whole lot of stamina that no one told me about," he commented with a smirk, raising his mug from where he'd been holding it on his lap and sipping.

The Werewolf rolled his eyes as he smeared his hand down his face and let it fall to his side. A chorus of "you'll shoot your eye out" started up on the TV, a familiar voice in his head responding with a "that's what she said".

His ex was a childish moron at times.

"I doubt you came all this way to insult the scent of my apartment—which, by the way, smells fine," the Kitsune glared at the other man. "And yes, I do have a Supernatural sense of smell and yes, I do know exactly what it smells like and I happen love it."

Derek held his hands up in surrender, not wanting to get into it. Besides, he knew all about how great a place or room or car can smell when covered in your Mate's scent—especially their aroused scent and the scent of their come—and how other people may—

Wait.

Holy shit.

He'd known Parrish and Lydia made a great pair, that them as a couple made sense and just seemed to work, but he hadn't gone as far as to think they were Mates. Made about as much as sense as them being just an ordinary couple though. And it just went to show that Mates really were perfect for one another, created to be together and complemented each other.

'Course that didn't mean things were gonna be easy and that said Mates were actually gonna be together in a relationship.

"So what's going on?"

Parrish's voice cut into his epiphany, bringing Derek back to the moment and reminding him of why he'd even stopped by in the first place.

"Stilinski wants you to take a look at these," he stated, reaching into the inside of his jacket and pulling out two pieces of tan card, each half the size of a sheet of paper. He held them out to his partner, who immediately took hold of them and inspected the set of six photos on the first card. "See if you recognize anyone from when you were abducted."

Parrish nodded, green eyes locked onto the card. "No one on here," he answered, referring to the array of elderly men Derek had randomly grabbed from the California DMV database. It'd been a long shot, but one worth taking just in case they got lucky.

The leaner male shuffled the two cards, eyes going wide as soon as they landed on the next set of photos. "That guy," he declared, pointing to the top middle photo. "He's the one I saw standing over Daehler and Wolcott and the one who stabbed me with a needle and caused me to pass out."

Derek offered him a Sharpie, Parrish taking it and circling his choice before signing his name, making it official. Business taken care of, the Werewolf took all the supplies and tucked them back inside his jacket.

"Thanks," he muttered, making sure everything was secure.

Parrish nodded, scooting forward on his seat to put his mug on the coffee table. "You doing okay, man?" he inquired, eyebrow arched in question. "Lydia filled me in on the whole Stiles thing."

Of fucking course she did.

Derek froze all over, hand still in his jacket. His chest went tight, heart skipping a beat at the mention of his ex's name, and he had to force himself to start moving once again.

He cleared his throat as he dropped his hands by sides, shrugging in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, pretending everything was fine and there was nothing gut-wrenching or heartbreaking happening in his personal life.

"Fine," he lied with a thick voice, scratching the side of his nose. "Just tired."

His partner stared up at him with narrowed eyes, lips pulled at one side. "It's so trippy," he murmured. "Hearing someone's heartbeat like that, noticing the increases in their heart rate and the skips in it."

The Werewolf felt the tips of his ears heat up, embarrassed at having been caught in a lie. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure Parrish was even implying that he knew the other man wasn't telling the truth. He could've just been commenting on the fact that he heard a blip but didn't know what it meant, just that it was weird.

Then again, he'd heard Derek comment enough times about liars and their heartbeat blips. He probably knew exactly what it meant and had, in fact, been implying that he knew Derek was full of shit.

Either way, he wasn't in the mood to be psychoanalyzed or discuss his feelings regarding his ex. No. He was in the mood to get back to work and distract himself from all of that bullshit.

"I gotta go. Still on duty." Weak, but honest, and it earned him a nod and an "alright, man." Goodbyes were exchanged, along with promises to see one another later on. Derek left the apartment to the sounds of Flick screaming that his tongue was stuck to the pole.

The universe wasn't exactly on Derek's side recently, a truth that became even more evident by the fact that there was now a familiar face in front of his chalkboard. A familiar, non-law enforcement face.

"Pretty sure that's classified information," he grumbled as he emptied the contents of his jacket onto his desk with a scowl.

Stiles turned his head towards the deputy, puzzled sneer on his face. "Since when has that stopped me?"

A sigh escaped the Werewolf, slipping his jacket off and hanging it on the back of his chair. The guy had a point—and a habit of sticking his nose in official police business where it didn't belong—but he was too proud to admit it. Instead, he just scowled at the younger man and tried not to think about the fact that Stiles had gotten his hair trimmed and had styled it neater, that he was now freshly shaven with a face full of smooth skin, that he was back in his usual wardrobe of jeans, red flannel shirt, and graphic tee—this one green with white letters asking if the reader wanted to lick his candy cane, an arrow pointing down decorated with red stripes like the mentioned treat. Classy.

The human smirked knowing the older man's silence was just a good as an agreement, scent smug and victorious. Derek barely resisted using the chalkboard to wipe the expression off his face, partially because of all the hard work he put into it, partially because he didn't want his boss to get pissed at him, and partially because despite all the emotional hurt Stiles had put him through, he still couldn't bring himself to physically harm the guy.

Mates were a pain in the ass.

Rather than respond to the self-satisfied grin, Derek crossed his arms and continued to glare. "Why are you even here?" he demanded, staring the younger man right in the eye and showing that he wasn't backing down, that he was the more dominant one.

The human scratched the back of his neck. "Taking my pops to lunch." No blip, no lie, but still not entirely honest.

"Your dad doesn't get a lunch break for another two hours."

He slumped and rolled his head around, clearly aggravated that Derek wasn't just going along with it. "And I'm also bored as hell, okay? It's weird being at that house after all this time." He paused to swallow hard, licking his lips as he turned back to the board. "You know there's still a dent in the wall where you punched a hole the first time I blew—"

Derek slapped a hand over his ex's mouth before glancing around. The only other deputy in sight was Lahey on the other side of the room, failing at hiding his amused smirk behind his hand as he pretended to type. Wonderful. He was never gonna hear the end of it. He just had to hope he was never put on patrol with the young beta or it'd end in bloodshed.

Stiles grinned behind his hand and Derek's scowl intensified, dropping the appendage and refolding his arms. "Can't you be bored somewhere else?" the Werewolf grumbled, wondering why, out of all the places in Beacon Hills, did the guy chose there to deal with his complacency.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the human shrugged and shook his head. "Like where? Scott's at work, Lydia's being forced to spend the entire day with her mom, Allison's overseas, and before you even mention your family, Cora still scares me, Malia doesn't notice anything that isn't Kira, and Laura hugged me so hard last night that she about broke my windpipe."

Derek's eyes automatically flitted down to the younger man's neck, searching for bruises and redness, remembering when Laura had practically choked Stiles after he'd come back from spending the summer abroad during a school sanctioned trip. But no marks marred his skin, just perfect pale skin and the occasional mole decorating the flesh.

His mind supplied what other marks could adorn his throat, those made by his own mouth, but he shoved the thought away, snapping his head back to his board. The younger man reached out to touch one of the crime scene photos—a close-up of the stab wounds on Carrie Hudson's torso—and he smacked it away, glaring at him.

Stiles returned the angry look, adding a mature tongue sticking out. "I just wanted a closer look," he pointed out petulantly before turning back to the photo. "What are those marks around the knife wounds?"

"We don't know," Derek found himself answering, mentally kicking himself and his damn instincts for wanting to give in to his Mate's desires, which in this instance was providing info he wasn't supposed to have. "We haven't figured it out yet."

The human let out a noncommittal "huh", stating at it with narrowed eyes and parted lips, lost in thought. He was silent for a long moment, too long really, allowing Derek ample opportunity to sneak glances of his profile: that long neck, his upturned nose, long lashes. God, so beautiful, and Derek had once had it all to himself.

Until he'd fucked it up.

Until Stiles had further fucked it up by leaving.

Shit.

"Your sister wants me to help you get that stick out your ass."

What the...?

The statement was made so suddenly and out of nowhere that it took Derek a minute to figure out what had just happened and what had just been said. And then he scowled again.

"Laura," he growled under his breath, not needing any further clues to realize it was her. Meddling pain in the ass.

"Yep," Stiles replied, popping the "p". "It was said while she was hugging-slash-choking me, but whatever. That's family for ya, right?" He peeked out the corner of his eye repeatedly, checking the older man for a reaction of some sort, heart beating wildly in his chest. Maybe an agreement that Stiles was still family, that it hadn't changed. Or maybe an argument that Stiles had severed those ties when he'd hopped on a bus or a plane or a stranger's car to head to New York.

Derek wasn't sure how to react really. Instead he just stood there staring at his board with a flat expression, trying to calm his own racing heart. Because Stiles still thought he was family, still wanted to be a part of the Hale clan, still...

Still maybe wanted Derek? Despite his being a Werewolf and therefore an entirely different species. Despite his strength and speed and stamina and the fact that he could rip Stiles apart without even trying. Despite the freakish anatomy that had him running off before.

"It wasn't your knot..."

"Hale!"

Both heads snapped to see the sheriff standing in the open doorway of his office, waving at the deputy to come in with big arm movements. Derek nodded once at his boss to acknowledge the signal and to say he was on his way then scowled at Stiles.

"Stop snooping and don't touch anything," he growled out in warning, the younger man holding his hands up innocence. Point made, the Werewolf snatched up the photo arrays from his desk and strode into the sheriff's office, leaving the door open behind himself.

"Whatcha got for me?" his boss questioned as he stood behind his desk, staring down at a scattered collection of papers, finger holding his place as he read.

Derek peeked down at it, seeing the word "Kitsunes" across the top of one sheet in bold letters. Most likely he was educating himself about Parrish like Derek had tried to do the other morning.

"No go on the elderly male," he informed his superior, tossing the arrays to the side of the desk, careful not to cover Stilinski's reading material. "But he identified Brunski as his abductor."

Stilinski's eyes flicked up at that, brows raising. "Really?" he asked rhetorically, moving his stapler to hold his place before picking up the photo sets and checking them out for himself. "Looks like we might actually be getting somewhere with this case."

"About fuckin' time," Derek muttered without thinking, eyes going wide as he realized what he'd just said and who he'd said it to. Fuck, he was tired. All the sleepless nights were catching up with him and making him sloppy.

And, of course, his travel mug was both in his borrowed sheriff cruiser and empty. Terrific.

"Got anything else for me?" Stilinski inquired while filing away the array with Parrish's signature.

The Werewolf thought about his convo with Parrish and how there was no other new info from that—or at least, no new info relevant to their case. Developments in the Kitsune's love life weren't vital to solving this mystery.

Then, for some reason, he thought of his discussion with Argent earlier that day, his brother-in-law telling him that McCall and the SRB were most likely gonna get involved sometime soon. Seemed damn important that his boss get a heads up on that, especially considering the fact that McCall wasn't all that popular in the Stilinski household either.

Kinda hard to be well-liked when you're an alcoholic scumbag who once shoved his kid down a flight of stairs then disappeared out his family's life the next day.

Although that last part was actually a blessing. Sometimes a person taking off without a word and never returning was a good thing.

In the case of Stiles, it hadn't been.

"Lacrosse stick," the younger man's voice stated from behind Derek, almost as if he'd been summoned just by being thought about.

The Werewolf jolted, wondering how the fuck someone had managed to sneak up on him and his Supe hearing like that, especially someone as clumsy and as loud as Stiles Stilinski.

The sheriff rolled his eyes in exasperation, staring down his son with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. "Stiles, what the hell are you doing in my office?"

"Helping you out," the younger man stated with conviction, stepping around Derek and heading straight towards the back wall of his dad's office. Derek was just about to open his mouth to question what he was doing before he caught sight of a familiar object leaning against the far corner: Stiles' old lacrosse stick. He'd accidentally left it there right before leaving town and the sheriff hadn't had the heart to take it home. Derek figured he liked the reminder of his son hanging about, but also liked to believe that maybe one day, Stiles would stroll through the department doors like always and collect it, rambling about how scatterbrained he felt.

Current reality Stiles picked up the piece of equipment, flipping it over so the net was by the floor then popping off the end cap. He inspected the end of the stick before pointing it towards the other occupants of the room. "The shape seem familiar?"

Derek furrowed his brow in concentration as he stared at the hexagonal shape of the stick, eyes widening in realization. His head snapped to his boss, noting the same expression on Stilinski's face.

The sheriff shoved his Kitsune info aside in a haphazard pile before yanking over a file folder and flinging it open. He flipped through various crime scene photos before coming across one of the stab wounds on Carrie Hudson's torso and holding it up next to the end of the stick.

"Well, I'll be damned," he breathed out, doing the same thing with photos of DeMarco Montana's wounds, then the Wolcotts'.

Stiles smelled of a small amount of pride in his discovery and joy over being helpful, yet saddened at the fact that someone would use something from a sport he enjoyed playing as a weapon. Sure, hitting teammates with the sticks while using them as pretend lightsabers was one thing, but using them to actually kill? Completely messed up. Didn't take a genius to see how upset and disturbed Stiles was by the whole thing.

He put the cap back on the end of the stick before returning it to where he'd found it, the piece of equipment automatically sliding down to the floor. He muttered out a few choice swears as he repeatedly fixed it, his dad talking over him.

"So we can narrow down our suspect pool to, what? About a hundred or so lacrosse players in Beacon County?"

"You can actually narrow it down further than that," Stiles commented, stick upright again, holding his hands out as though telling it to stay. Satisfied it wasn't going anywhere, he turned to his dad and ex, clasping his hands in front of his chest. "Beacon Hills High requires its lacrosse players to buy their own equipment. It'd be easy for a player there to hide a knife in the end of their stick and never get caught because he'd get to hold onto it."

Derek raised his eyebrows, impressed with the young man's deduction skills and the lead he'd just given them. Turning to his boss, he found Stilinski nodding, eyes narrowed in focus and his bottom teeth showing, arms folded casually over his chest.

"It's a good theory," he allowed, scratching at his jaw. "But there's no definitive way to prove any of it, not without any sort of eyewitness statement."

"And there's no way to get that without going on some sort of fishing expedition that would raise suspicion amongst the players and making any potential suspects run and hide," Derek added in, thumbs hooked on his utility belt. "Not to mention it'd be thrown out in court."

The sheriff pointed at him. "That, too."

Stiles opened his mouth but was cut off by a knock on the doorway, his scent turning sour with dislike as his eyes narrowed in anger and his lip curled in disgust.

Derek turned around to find Agent Rafael McCall standing in the open doorway, dressed in black slacks and jacket, dark blue dress shirt underneath with the top two buttons undone, his SRB badge hanging from a chain around his neck. The Werewolf scowled, lip curling back to reveal dropped fangs, low growl rumbling up from his chest.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," McCall stated, not sounding at all genuine, even if his scent did carry the slightest hint of remorse for barging in.

Stilinski sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not at all, Agent," he grumbled before refolding his arms, sounding as sincere as the other man had been. But due to his job position, he was forced to play nice and cooperate with the federal agent. Didn't mean he had to like it and hide his distaste though.

Derek didn't have to play nice at all really and he took a step towards the Agent, growls deepening.

"Hale," Stilinski called in a warning tone, hand held up in his deputy's direction.

McCall switched his attention to the mentioned male, one-sided grin on his face. "Derek. Good to see you."

"Burn in Hell."

"Hale!" his boss barked then huffed. "Why don't you go on your lunch break? And take Stiles with you."

Derek let out a choking noise in protest, but no words actually left his mouth.

Stiles, however, had plenty to say. "Great idea, Pops," he stated genuinely, giving his dad a double thumbs up on his way over to his ex. "I'm actually getting pretty hungry and the hostility in this room is making me crazy and my head is about to explode from all the noise so Derek and I would be glad to go grab a bite to eat and let you guys handle business, alright? Alright."

The Werewolf wanted to argue but getting away from McCall sounded pretty damn great. So when his arm was grabbed and he was pulled towards the door, he let his body go limp enough to be easily hauled wherever—which was apparently to his desk, where Stiles grabbed his jacket, then towards the front door.

"Where the hell is your jacket?" he demanded, the words coming out automatically, his worry over Stiles and his health pretty much instinctual.

The younger man just snorted as he shoved open the main door, still pulling Derek along with him as they headed straight to the cruiser he'd used earlier. The Werewolf unlocked the doors and climbed in behind the wheel, Stiles joining him on the passenger side, causing him to cock an eyebrow.

"What're you doing?"

The human pulled his lips up at one side, frowning in confusion. "Going to lunch with you. Duh."

"Oh no," Derek protested, slipping the key in the ignition but not cranking the engine up. "No way. You're going home."

"Can't," he argued with a smirk, whiskey eyes sparkling in wicked delight. "I don't have a car, the bus isn't coming here for another two hours, and I am not walking home. Plus, as I said earlier, it's boring there."

Derek ground his teeth, eyes narrowed in anger and annoyance, not only at the other man but also at himself and his wolf for being joyful over getting the chance to spend time with him. He was supposed to be avoiding the guy, be moving on, be hating him for breaking his heart and disappearing the way he had. But there he was, feeling thrilled for having Stiles around and for having the opportunity to hang out, even if it was because his only other option was boredom.

Which, now that he thought about it...ouch.

"I'm dropping you off at home," Derek decided, hand on the keys once again.

Stiles' scent turned salty with upset, bottom lip sticking out as he flopped back in the seat. "But Deeeeerrr," he whined, rubbing his flat stomach and drawing the Werewolf's eyes to it, bringing up flashes of nuzzling into the pale flesh there, licking, sucking, and nibbling as he teased his way down to the place they both wanted him to be.

"Your Mate is hungry. For curly fries at the Main Street Diner," Stiles concluded, peering up at the older man with begging doe eyes and trembling bottom lip.

Derek glared—hard—feeling the same earlier urge to smack his head against something hard. Playing on his Mating instincts was an unfair move and while it might've been tolerated when they were together, at that moment, it was downright cruel.

"You're the worst," Derek grumbled, starting the car with a sigh.

The smirk reappeared on Stiles' face and he buckled his seat belt, scent lighting up with joy and love and excitement. "Yeah, but that's one of the many reasons why you love me, right?" he asked rhetorically with a wink.

The older man didn't answer, didn't wanna be caught in a lie not admit to anything. Although really, by not responding, he was kind of already admitting it. And given the way the human's smirk grew into a full-on grin, lighting up his entire face from the inside out, Stiles realized it was an admittance of sorts, too.

Derek huffed before finally starting the car and backing out of the space, turning the SUV around to head out into the street. "Just so you know, I'm only heading to the diner because I was planning on going there anyway."

"Yeah, yeah," the younger man waved him off, not believing any of it.

Made two of them really.

Chapter Text

It was all of three minutes before Stiles opened his mouth again, turning his head to Derek from where he'd been staring out the windshield, knee bouncing and thumbnail being chewed on. "Scott has a beta named Liam who plays lacrosse at Beacon Hills High," he stated outta nowhere, brow furrowed in thought. "We could talk to him, see if he's noticed any suspicious activity."

"Okay, one," Derek began, holding a finger up in his passenger's direction. "There's no 'we' in this. You are staying out of it." The statement earned him a "boooo!" which he ignored. "And two," he continued, flicking up a second finger. "How the hell did you know that?"

Stiles rolled his eyes before holding up his own finger. "Because one," he mocked with a head wiggle before speaking in his normal voice. "Liam was at your family's party last night. He was the short kid glued to the lanky beta's side."

The Werewolf bobbed his eyebrows in acceptance, both hands back on the steering wheel, remembering the mentioned Supes—and how he'd snarled at them. He was always one for making good impressions on people.

"And two," the human continued, flicking up a second finger of his own. "Scott told me in one of his emails."

He saw red at that, his wolf snarling in his head at its Mate keeping in such close contact with another Werewolf. He understood Scott was practically a brother, was family, but Derek was his fucking Mate. If anyone should be receiving emails from an MIA Stiles, it was Derek.

The fact that the person who was meant to be with him and was created especially for him was left out the loop communications-wise was a little fucked up in Derek's eyes.

"Lemme get this straight," he began, voice dripping with venom, glaring out the windshield with a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. "You routinely emailed Scott but couldn't just attach my email address or send me a message of my own or any other shit like that?" He pulled to a stop at a red light, turning his head to hit the other man with the full force of his glare.

But Stiles wasn't intimidated by it, hadn't been since he was young, and simply gave the older man a hard look right back. "In case you've forgotten, I left pretty awkwardly and suddenly. I figured you'd be mad if you sent you an email rather than just talking shit out face-to-face."

"No," the Werewolf responded calmly, through gritted teeth, feeling proud of himself for gently pressing down the gas as the light switched to green. "I was mad at the fact that you didn't give me a reason for you leaving and that you didn't write or call or anything."

A snort was Stiles' initial response, head rocking, thumbnail between his teeth again as they both focused out the front window. "What exactly was I supposed to say? 'Dear Der, sorry for running out mid-coitus, but I popped a knot right when you did and it freaked me the fuck out—no pun intended—and I ran away in a panic 'cause that's what I do'?" He turned his head to the driver, eyebrows raised in a "seriously, dude?" manner, an add-on to his sarcastic and snarky comments.

Derek kept switching his own line of sight between the road and the man on his right, lips parted and brow furrowed. What Stiles had said had made zero sense—except for the running out in panic part, because that really was what he did. But the popping a knot part? That was impossible.

"Stiles, humans don't pop knots," he pointed out, voice a mix of matter-of-fact and confused-as-hell.

The human in question kept staring out the windshield, thumbnail between his teeth. "Exactly," he replied flatly.

Frowning, the older man continued glancing back and forth between his passenger and the road, not entirely sure what the fuck was going on. He felt like he maybe didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle, or that if he did, he wasn't sure how to fit it all together right.

Stiles had popped a knot—which, was impossible—then had run off.

He'd come back to Beacon Hills with Noshiko Yukimura, whom he was living with in New York.

Noshiko Yukimura was a famous Kitsune and was currently helping Parrish adjust to his new life as a fox spirit.

Holy. Shit.

"When you talked to my mom," he began cautiously, staring out front. "Did she tell you about Noshiko?"

Stiles' scent shifted to something sad, reluctant, and he sank further in his seat. "Yeah," he breathed out before clearing his throat and continuing at a normal volume. "But can we maybe have this convo when we get to the diner? I'd rather not discuss this while we're moving, Supe reflexes or not."

Derek turned to see Stiles already looking back at him, eyes wide with pleading. He remembered how skittish the younger man had been after his accident, how reluctant he'd been to get in a car, much less behind the wheel. He'd had a panic attack the first time he'd driven and Derek had barely been able to talk him down. Considering he'd spent the past three years in a city of subways, it'd probably been a while since he'd been in a car and his old fears where playing up again.

The Werewolf nodded, murmuring out a small "yeah" before refocusing out the windshield, silence descending over them as they completed the trip to the Main Street Diner.

The parking lot was near deserted, an obnoxious black SUV parked along the side. Derek chose a spot on the opposite side of the lot, he and Stiles exiting as soon as the engine was killed.

The Werewolf's mind was buzzing with a million thoughts, nose plagued by his ex's vacillating emotions, from relief to upset to happiness to dread. When combined with his own emotional merry-go-round of peace, happiness, confusion, and anger, he felt completely fucked up mentally and no longer had any clue as to which way was up.

The only other customers in the diner were a couple teens: a blond male with his dark-skinned girlfriend and once again, Derek chose to remain on the opposite side of them, taking the side of the booth that faced the door so he could watch out for any threats. He wasn't sure if it was a Werewolf thing or a Mate thing or just a him thing, but whatever the case, Stiles smirked slightly at the action, scent lighting up with happiness as he remembered his ex's old habit.

A middle-aged waitress soon came over, cooing over Stiles and how much he'd grown since she'd last seen him. He acted like his usual charming self, all smiles and self-deprecating humor, complimenting her profusely and making her giggle into her notepad.

Derek hid his scowl behind a plastic covered menu, acting like he wasn't put out by his semi-flirtatious ways, reminding himself that it was just Stiles being Stiles and that if the guy was really serious in his come ons, he'd been flailing and failing all over the place.

His mind flashed back to dates he'd been on at that very diner, mainly the ones he'd had with the young man seated across from him. He remembered shared chocolate milkshakes upon Stiles' insistences because "tradition, Der, so stop being a Sour Wolf." He remembered french fry fights because he was dating a tall child at times. He remembered being coerced into chauffeuring Stiles there before they began dating, sometimes being joined by Scott, sometimes Cora and Malia, sometimes a huge gaggle of their friends that had somehow managed to pile into his dad's pick-up that he'd have to borrow and he'd feel left out and outta place pretty much the entire time, but the smile on Stiles' face and the laughter bursting out his chest made it all worth it.

"What about you, hun?" the waitress cut into his reverie, causing his head to snap up, eyes wild in surprise.

"Huh?"

Stiles hid his amused smirk behind his hand, shaking his head, and Derek barely held back on flipping him off.

"What would you like to drink?" she asked sweetly, not seeming annoyed by his space out.

"Coffee," he replied flatly. "Strongest you got. And keep 'em coming."

"You got it, hun," she said with a wink, turning to leave until Stiles stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

"We're ready to order," he stated, smiling, making Derek frown in confusion. "I'll have two grilled cheese sandwiches, side of curly fries. He'll have the large Wolf burger, extra cheese, no tomato or lettuce, large order of steak fries on the side."

Their waitress gave them a smile as she scribbled it all down, informing them she'd be right back with their drinks before shuffling off. Derek sat there with his eyebrows raised, impressed that his order had been remembered.

"You're offending me that you honestly thought I'd forget that," Stiles stated, sliding the salt shaker closer and spinning it around. "We came here how many times? And you always ordered the same things."

"Sometimes I'd get a coke," the Werewolf rasped out, just to be argumentative.

The younger man rolled his eyes, focusing on what his hands were doing. "Guess we should talk, huh?"

He thought back to the convo in the car, where they'd left off, the epiphany he'd just had as he slotted everything together to form the right picture. Then he remembered the sheriff practically ordering him to let Stiles talk, to let him tell everything and how it'd been worded as though he hadn't a choice. Nodding, he licked his lips before leaning back in the booth, arms folded over his chest before he dropped them, not wanting to appear aggressive or closed off. "You're a Kitsune," he stated flatly, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

Stiles nodded in return, pausing his spinning to work the back of his neck. "Yeah," he murmured. "Latent gene on my mom's side triggered by that wreck I was in."

"Satomi and my mom told me how trauma like that can trigger hidden powers."

A wistful smile pulled up the corner of his lips. "She told me the same thing," he informed him, pausing to swallow, resuming his salt shaker spinning. "After my accident, a lotta weird shit had been happening to me. Flames were flickering, candles lighting without matches, fires igniting without any spark. I could see better, hear better, heal faster, all these things Supes can do but I wasn't supposed to be able to."

The waitress deposited their drinks before heading off again, Stiles sliding the plastic tub of sweetener over to Derek. The Werewolf gave him a thanks before slipping out a couple pink packs, shaking them as he spoke.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Honestly?" Stiles asked back, swallowing as his scent turned reluctant and ashamed. "I thought I was imagining the whole thing, that I was just going crazy." He shrugged and shook his head, using his straw to swirl the ice around in his soda. "My mom had hallucinations as part of her dementia. I was scared I was developing it, too, so I ignored it, pretended it wasn't real."

Derek snorted at that. "Terrible idea."

The younger man bobbed his eyebrows in a "no kidding" manner. "I'm not exactly known for making wise decisions based on logic, am I?" he pointed out, smelling upset again.

His wolf whimpered in his head at that and without thinking, he slid his foot forward, nudging one of Stiles' with it. A small grin pulled at the corner of the younger man's lips, nudging him back.

"Anyway," the human—no, Kitsune continued. "Yeah, I ignored all of it until I popped a knot with you. Kind of undeniable proof at that point when you can actually feel that anatomically, there's something different about you."

Derek nodded, knowing a little about how that felt. He could ignore his Werewolfness all he wanted, pretend to be human all day long, but upon the full moon he'd turn into a wolf, upon sex with his Mate he'd had a knot. None of those things would be considered "normal", not by human standards anyway.

"So I ran to Talia 'cause I figured she'd know what the hell was going on with me and be able to help. She took one look at me with her wolf eyes and said I was a Kitsune."

The Werewolf let his own flash, expecting to see the same fox-shaped aura around Stiles that he'd spotted around Parrish. But there was nothing, just a smirking former-human wiggling his fingers in a wave.

"Noshiko taught me how to hide my aura," he commented smugly, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

"Not exactly fair," the older man grumbled, throwing the trash from his sweetener packets at him and hitting his cheek.

Their food arrived then, the waitress leaving after making sure everything was okay. Derek reached over and snatched Stiles' pickle spear off his plate, knowing the younger man hated them.

"So what else did my mom say?" he questioned, biting into the pickle with a satisfying crunch.

"Aside from commentary over now knowing too much about her son and his Mate's sex life?" Stiles asked back, wiping pickle juice off his plate with a napkin before squirting a puddle of ketchup in that same spot. He acted like he hadn't a care, but his scent held the slight hint of embarrassment—miniscule when compared to the overwhelming heat of Derek's blush—and worry that he'd shared too much with his ex's mom. Not that there was anything either of them could do about it now.

Except maybe apologize to Derek's mom.

A lot.

"Well," Stiles continued, ketchup bottle back in its spot, sucking excess of his thumb. "She told me about Noshiko in New York and how she'd be able to help me, then told me to wait until I graduated and talk it all out with you. But I just wanted to go, to get better control of my powers before I accidentally set someone on fire. Sooner the better, ya know?"

Derek chewed his burger thoughtfully, mulling over everything his ex had said and what he hadn't. He'd explained why he'd left, why he'd done it so soon and suddenly, why he'd gone to New York of all places. But there was still something he hadn't fully explained, something that still was nagging at the back of his mind.

"What I don't get," he began, pausing to drink deeply before continuing. "Is why you didn't explain any of it to me and why you cut off all contact." He scented the younger man's emotional state, noting the upset and worry and remorse mixed all together. But as mean as it seemed, Derek was glad for it. It showed that Stiles cared, that he was apologetic for what he'd done, that he wasn't a psychopath who went around hurting people without a care. "Why not just explain it all to me? I would've supported your trip to New York and maybe even helped you gain and keep control over your powers."

Stiles stared at his plate, tapping a fry against it repeatedly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "My control actually really sucks in all honesty," he murmured, shrugging it off. "But the reason I didn't tell you," he began, voice louder and stronger this time, though still reluctant and joined by that smell of regret. "Was because I thought you wouldn't want me anymore."

The Werewolf dropped the fry he'd been holding, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, unable to believe what he was hearing. Was he drunk? High? Was there something in his drink? In the New York air? Maybe he really had inherited his mom's dementia and was going insane. Any of those were perfectly suitable explanations for why Stiles would ever actually believe that Derek would never want him.

Fucking ridiculous.

Because despite everything Stiles had done, Derek still wanted him. At least physically.

Although if he was being completely honest with himself, he still wanted him emotionally and domestically and every other way possible, too.

"Are you a fucking moron?" he blurted out in a deadpan way, making the other man's eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widened. "Why wouldn't I want you?"

Stiles swallowed his food with a loud gulp, features back to normal, slumping down in the booth with his shoulders hunched and his lips turned down. "Because I'm not human anymore," he murmured pitifully, chin tucked to his chest. "You once said it was one of your favorite things about me and now I'm not that anymore so—" He ended it with a shrug, shoving his plate of half-eaten food away. Shit had to be bad if he wasn't eating his curly fries. And from his depressed scent and shrunken-in posture, it was clear that he was beyond upset.

Derek's own appetite went MIA, stomach rolling and chest tight at knowing his Mate was upset. Fuck, seeing Stiles in any state of sadness was the worst form of torture for him and this was beyond anything he could handle. And it was all because he was suffering under the delusion that Derek didn't want him.

And if that was upsetting him to that point, then he clearly loved Derek. Maybe even still did.

The thought brought a warmth to his too tight chest, his sluggish heart pumping at a faster rate. Stiles hadn't left because he didn't care about Derek or because he was scared and couldn't handle Derek's Supe nature and anatomy; he left due to worry over himself, over hurting someone else with powers he didn't understand and couldn't control.

A weight lifted off his chest at that, lessening the vice grip it was stuck in, a tightness still remaining at his Mate's down mood. But he could fix that, wanted to fix that, and it was a huge step forward from where he'd been at that time the day before.

Leaning forward, he cupped the younger man's chin and lifted his head, forcing them to make eye contact, ignoring the butterflies he felt at the physical contact and the sight of those honey-whiskey-chocolate irises. "I love you, Stiles, no matter what form," he stated honestly, lowly, the words only meant for the person he was speaking to. The younger man's breath hitched, pupils dilating, heart rate picking up speed. "Human, Supe, doesn't matter. I love who you are as a person, your character, your personality, your soul. Your anatomy and your powers are part of you, not all of you, and the whole package is what I'm in love with."

Stiles just stared with half-lidded eyes and parted lips, breathing shaky and unsure. His face had reddened, standing out starkly against pale skin and chocolate moles, and his scent was pure joy and love, with an underlying current of lust.

"Present tense," he breathed out after a long moment, licking his lips. "You said you love me, present tense."

The realization set in quickly, yet felt right. Derek did still love him and there was no point in lying or denying it. But love wasn't enough, as evidenced by the fact that one half of their coupledom had fled to the other side of the country.

And still...

"Yeah," he breathed, pausing to swallow, throat suddenly dry. It would be so easy to kiss Stiles, to pull him closer until their lips connected, to lift himself up off the booth bench and press their mouths together. And it would be just as easy to excuse it all away, to claim it was a heat of the moment thing, a knee-jerk reaction to the close proximity, a habit he hadn't broken yet.

"I still love you," he admitted on a whisper, eyes flicking down to the other man's lips, noting the shine from saliva, the pink color to them, the fact that they were smooth and not chapped as they used to be. So easy...

Which was why he released his hold on his ex's chin and leaned back, ignoring the protesting whine in the back of Stiles' throat and the way he tried to lean toward him and how both those things tugged at his heart strings.

"But I can't trust you," he added, volume a little louder than his previous statements, voice slightly rougher than before. "Not after the lies and the running away."

Stiles flopped back against the booth seat, smelling defeated and upset once again. He nodded as he pressed his lips together, face resolved before a small smirk curved up the corner of his lips. "Think I could get a chance to earn that trust back?" he questioned, hope coloring his words and his scent.

Derek shrugged, slinging back the remnants of his coffee. "Maybe. But you'd have to actually keep in contact in order to do that."

The younger man's smirk grew and his scent turned joyous, face lit up from the inside. Derek felt his wolf wag its tail as his heart pounded in his chest, thrilled and proud that he'd been the one to make his Mate happy.

He ducked his head to hide his own small grin, slipping his wallet out the back of his khaki slacks. "C'mon," he prompted, tossing a couple bills on the table that were more than enough to cover lunch and leave a hefty tip. "I'll take you to get your car."

Stiles choked on his soda, sputtering as his eyes went wide. "Roscoe?" he practically yelled, grin widening so much it hurt Derek's face just to look at it. "Roscoe's still around?"

The Werewolf rolled his eyes as he stood up, never able to understand why his ex had named his Jeep that. "Yeah, he's around. Now come on so I can get back to work."

"Yeah, yeah," the Kitsune grumbled as he slid out the booth, rolling his own eyes. "No need to rush, Grumpy Wolf."

The older man narrowed his eyes at his ex as he passed and headed to the door, boring holes in the back of his head. He'd forgotten how annoying those nicknames could be and now that he was hearing them being spoken in real time rather than a flashback, he realized...

He'd fucking missed those stupid names.

Beacon Hills Self Storage was located off the highway on the south side of town. It offered humidity controlled units in a variety of sizes, including ones big enough to house a powder blue 1980 CJ5 Jeep inexplicably named Roscoe.

After sliding up the door and taking in Stiles' beaming face, Derek had the cliché thought of his ex looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Only to realize he was partially right, considering it was, in fact, Christmas.

Christ. After spending the last week or so dreading the damn holiday and hoping to avoid it, the day was half-gone without him even sparing a thought to its existence.

Wait. He'd had Christmas breakfast with his family that morning. Shit, had that really only been that morning? It'd happened a lifetime ago.

Or maybe he was just so tired and there was so much shit happening all at once that it seemed like a lifetime ago.

With the door fully opened and locked into place, Stiles ran into the unit and immediately latched onto the side of his car. He began caressing its metal, murmuring about how much he missed it and did it miss him, too, kisses pressed all over the door.

It was disturbing and so very Stiles.

Derek cleared his throat from his spot on the threshold, scratching his whiskered jaw. "Inspections are all up to date," he informed the younger man, who was still petting his vehicle. "I kept up the maintenance on it, took it out for a drive every couple weeks to make sure the engine didn't seize up and it still worked."

Stiles finally pried himself away, turning to the other man, brow furrowed in confusion. "You did all that?" he asked dubiously, getting a nod as an answer. "Why?"

Derek shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He was like a little kid with a grade school crush, embarrassed over giving the object of his affections some random dandelions he'd plucked from the schoolyard grass during recess. But really, it was just his job as a Mate to provide and take care of his partner, to make sure they were happy, even if they weren't in the same state. And making sure Roscoe was well taken care of and ran right would make Stiles happy.

"In case you ever came back," he muttered, resisting the urge to kick his foot against the small pebbles littering the threshold and becoming even more like the small child he already felt he was acting like.

The Kitsune's heart skipped a beat, smile and scent both turning warm and content. "Thanks," he said genuinely, reaching out for the older man before bringing his hand back in and scratching the back of his neck. "I owe ya."

Derek shrugged a shoulder, unable to argue with his Mate's wants, then declared he needed to head back to work. It wasn't that he really wanted to go, not with McCall now hanging around and being involved, but he really did need to work on the case and pull his weight. Plus the longer he was around Stiles, the harder it was to remind himself that they were over and he was still hurt and mad at the guy.

The younger man's face fell, scent now disappointed and upset, but he quickly pasted on a fake smile, giving him an "all right".

Handing over the Jeep's key off his ring, Derek said his goodbyes, the sentiment being returned in a much more subdued tone. He climbed behind the wheel of the sheriff SUV, starting up the engine and telling himself that he didn't wanna stick around, didn't wanna make that smile reappear on Stiles' face, didn't...

Sticking his head out the window, he called out the other man's name, watching as he turned from where he'd been walking away.

"Merry Christmas, Dork Fox!"

Stiles barked out a laugh, hand flying to his stomach, head tilting back, and Derek drove off with a smile on his face knowing he'd made his Mate happy.

Derek hadn't even made it to his desk when the sheriff barked out his name and ordered him into his office. He did as he was told, finding Lahey already standing in there, following further instructions to shut the door, allowing their conversation to remain private within the soundproofed space.

Stilinski stood behind his desk, leaning over it slightly with his hands braced on the wood. His earlier reading material on Kitsunes had been put up, replaced by various file folders and countless crime scene photos. "You might as well hear this, too," he commented, aiming it towards the newly arrived deputy, before gesturing to the younger one. "Go on."

"We managed to track down the store where the prepaid cells were bought," Lahey informed them, thumbs hooked on his belt. "Cashier named Heather said they were sold to a blond teenage male who paid cash, but she couldn't give any other description."

Derek smeared a hand over his face as he swore mentally. Another dead end. Just when he thought they'd finally taken a few steps in the right direction, they slam into another brick wall with no way around it.

And he'd been dumb enough to believe things were starting to look up.

"Well, to add to this day of joy and festivity," Stilinski deadpanned as he straightened up and folded his arms over his chest, reminding Derek of where the younger Stilinski inherited his sarcasm. "We are now working this case in conjunction with the SRB. Any and all evidence we had was turned over to McCall."

"Which was nothing," Lahey muttered, earning an unamused glare from his boss and an amused snort from his coworker.

"And any new leads must be run by him."

The older Werewolf rolled his eyes, the orbs landing on Stiles' lacrosse stick, still sitting upright in the corner.

"Blond teenage male," Lahey's voice repeated in his head.

Teenage males made up pretty much all lacrosse teams, including the one at Beacon Hills High. The prepaid cells being purchased by a teenage boy added more support to Stiles' theory of a player being one of the killers.

But he kept the train of thought to himself. Probably pretty vindictive but if that theory gave them a huge lead that broke the case wide open and resulted in several arrests, then he didn't want McCall getting a hold of it and making those arrests, taking all the credit and glory.

Prick didn't deserve it.

"In the meantime," Stilinski began, pausing with a sigh. "Lahey, get back on those security tapes, go over every single person in them. Someone picks their nose and wipes it on a seat, I wanna know, got it?"

The beta gave a quick "yes, sir" before leaving, closing the door over again.

"Hale, you go over this." He held a manila folder out to him, Derek taking it. "It's Brunski's employment history. Go over that thing with a fine-tooth comb and find anything at all incriminating."

"Wiping boogers on seats?" Derek quipped, eyebrow cocked, folder open in his hands.

"That, and abducting law enforcement officials from hospitals."

The Werewolf saluted him with the folder before leaving and heading to his desk. Okay, not heading to desk. Break room. More coffee was necessary.

Brunski's employment history had more red flags than a golf course. He'd been employed by six different mental hospitals over the past thirteen years—seven, if Eichen House was included—and he was fired from each one after multiple complaints of abuse and mistreatment, all made by Supes. His record at Eichen House held similar allegations, but each complaint was subsequently declared unfounded and no punishment was given.

Derek also went over Brunski's LUDs, finding the same prepaid phone numbers on the night of the Wolcott murders and the day of Parrish's abduction. He updated his chalkboard timeline, scowling at the unknown numbers.

He then did his own research online and in the department's database, trying to find connections between Haigh, Brunski, and lacrosse, but finding none. Both men had played football, neither had children—or even a spouse—and no nephews or nieces.

Another dead end.

Stilinski approached him around seven, reminding him that he'd skipped dinner and ordering him to go home, there was nothing else they could do that night. Derek reluctantly agreed, not looking forward to an empty apartment but also feeling tired as hell.

He grabbed some fast food on the way home, eating most of it in his car. He scarfed the rest down in his loft then showered, washing away the day.

And waking himself up some.

Shit. Not his intended effect.

Standing in the bedroom area in his towel, he stared around the empty space, holiday related memories hitting him at every turn. Taking Stiles' virginity on his bed. Mistletoe hung by Stiles over the iron spiral staircase that led to the skylight and the roof. Cuddling with Stiles on the couch watching a marathon of stop-motion Christmas classics. Making gingerbread Werewolves in his kitchen with Stiles.

Yeah. There was a reason why he always volunteered to work that day.

An idea formed in his head and he quickly dried and dressed in a pair of jeans and hunter green henley. Grabbing his things, he locked his loft up and headed out, hoping like hell he remembered the way to his intended destination.

The house Derek was looking for was exactly where he'd remember it to be—although he'd been a little thrown off by a side-stop on the way there. The iron gate was open, decorated with tasteful thick green garland, the driveway curving around the front of the large brick building lined with flowers covered in plastic to protect them from the frost.

He parked his Toyota to the side and got out, making sure to grab his purchase before heading to the front door. A large wreath decorated with a gold bow hung over dark green wood and he no longer felt the urge to scowl at it, instead just ignoring it as he rang the doorbell, wincing at the long two-tone gong that sounded out within the house.

The front door was opened with a flourish, revealing a middle-aged brunette in a plum dress, wide smile on her face. A glass of red wine was in her hand, half-full, and from the scent of her and the flush of her cheeks, it wasn't her first one. Her brown eyes looked him up and down, grin turning into something more salacious, scent now carrying a faint note of arousal.

Great.

Derek put on a friendly smile, one he'd had to fake many times over his years as a deputy, glad for the frequent practice as he grew slightly uncomfortable under her stare. It wasn't that he wasn't used to lustful looks like that, had more than his fair share of butt pinches while on duty and suffered frequent comments from horny housewives and lonely divorcees regarding men in uniform, all hoping to reenact whatever trashy romance novel they'd recently gobbled up. But this was different. This was his best friend's mom. It was just a tad bit weird.

Although it should've been predictable, considering the rumors he'd heard over Natalie Martin's flirtatious nature. Hell, even his own uncle had told stories regarding fancy dinners and too many glasses of wine with the woman.

Then again, his uncle was a known Lothario, so that was to be expected also.

Clearing his throat, Derek shifted in his place, readjusting his grip on the bag in his hand. "Evenin', Ms Martin," he greeted her, voice thick from discomfort. "Is Lydia home?"

He felt like a little kid asking if his friend could come out and play, but since said friend was spending winter break at her mother's house—when not spreading her scent all over the department and Parrish's loft—he had no choice but to go there and feel small again.

His words seemed to do the trick though, snapping her out of her daze with a shake of the head and an "oh!", mouth remaining in that shape. She let out a small laugh, pressing her free hand to her forehead as she further flushed, this time from embarrassment.

"Sorry about that," she apologized genuinely. "I think I've had a bit too much of this holiday wine." At that, she raised her glass, the burgundy liquid inside sloshing about and nearly staining the white carpet.

Derek slowly nodded once, not wanting to argue but also not wanting to imply the woman was a wino. Instead, he kept the friendly smile plastered on his face. "It's fine. Lydia?" he questioned again, eyebrows raised in expectation.

"She's upstairs," Natalie answered, pointing to a curved staircase on her right and taking a deep gulp of her wine. "You wouldn't happen to be Jordan, would you? I keep hearing about him from my daughter but I have no idea what he looks like. Other than incredibly handsome, which you so very much are." She gave him another smirk, this time accompanied by a wink, causing his discomfort to grow. Because now his best friend's mom was flirting with him while she believed to him to be her daughter's boyfriend.

He wasn't sure which part was more awkward.

"Derek," he clarified in a monotonous tone, debating whether or not to rib his friend over Lydia apparently constantly bringing up Parrish and the fact that he still hadn't met his girlfriend's mom despite having known each other for years and living in a small town.

"Ohh!" she drew out the syllable, wagging a finger at him in realization. "You're Stiles' boyfriend, the one she keeps hanging out with, right?"

"Ex," he corrected flatly. "And yes. I also happen to be friends with Lydia and was kinda hoping to give her her gift." To back up his point, he held up the long, slim Christmas bag he'd just purchased.

"Of course, hun." Natalie smiled, running a hand down Derek's bicep and making him wonder if it was a good idea to have corrected her on the status of his relationship with Stiles. Apparently he was now fair game and being eyed like he was prey. Not exactly a fun feeling for someone who was supposed to be the top of the food chain.

"Up the stairs, third door on the left," she directed, finally stepping to the side, her eyes sliding down his body appreciatively.

He gave her a small smile and a thanks, finally entering the large house, ignoring the feeling of her eyes on his backside as he made his way up the stairs. The door she'd directed him to was closed, a movie playing on the other side of the white wood, a British man talking about heading to America to get laid.

Oh God.

He knocked, the movie being paused a few seconds later before bare feet shuffled over. Lydia opened the door, standing in a pair of pink Victoria's Secret lounge pants and Parrish's UIC hoodie, hair in a messy bun on top of her head, face make-up free. Green eyes went wide as she took him in, scent full of shock at his presence and a mild hint of self-consciousness at her own appearance.

"Derek?" she gasped out, voice raspier than usual before she cleared it. "What're you doing here?"

He held up the bag, her eyes flipping over to the sparkly red and the glittery white snowflakes decorating it. "Merry Christmas."

She arched an eyebrow at him then took it, reaching inside and withdrawing the bottle of her favorite Skinny Girl vodka. A small smile played on the corner of her lips. “Well, it's not donuts,” she joked before peering up at him, displaying the bottle like a game show hostess, eyebrow arching up again. "Stiles?"

He nodded. "Stiles."

She bobbed both brows in dismissal, muttering that she figured as much. "Come on in," she instructed with a wave of her hand. "I'll grab some OJ and glasses."

He did as he was told, gazing about at her lilac walls and white furniture, framed prints of butterfly sketches hung up in strategic places. "Just don't let your mom get to it," he suggested, slipping off his leather jacket and tossing it on the back of an armchair in the corner. "She's had enough of that holiday wine."

"Oh please," she snorted, putting the bottle and bag on top of her dresser beside a pile of small presents. "She finished that off before dinner and moved on to the Fifty Shades of Grey wine your uncle bought her."

He turned to her with a grimace on his face, noting her standing with her arms wrapped around her waist. "That's disturbing on so many levels," he commented, scenting her discomfort and slight nausea.

"You have no idea," she whispered harshly, eyebrows bobbing as she gave him a pointed look.

Her words reminded him of his uncle's own flirtatious nature, how he'd spent several months trying to win over Nurse McCall right after her son had been Bitten and Derek's mom had taken him under her wing. Then he'd come on to Lydia the entire summer after she'd graduated, insisting it was fine because she was legal now, despite repeated objections from Stiles and Derek and Lydia's countless rejections and disturbed scent. Then, of course, was his constant flirtations with every female deputy after Derek had been hired, the younger Werewolf finally having to go to his mom to get her to straighten her brother out before he got fired. Peter had toned it down to just a smirk and a wink at all of them, which was still annoying but better than it had been.

Lydia gave him a "be right back" before shuffling out her room and down the stairs, her mom almost immediately jumping her for info regarding her hot friend and whether he was single, the younger Martin female making disgusted scoffing noises.

Derek tuned them out, not wanting to her any more of Natalie's argument that it was okay because he wasn't all that young and age gaps like that were quite commonplace those days. Instead, he meandered about the room, taking in the little knickknacks she had: a wind-up jewelry case that sat open, the ballerina on full display; a porcelain unicorn rearing back on its hind legs; bottles of Chanel perfume and loads of make-up supplies that Derek only knew the names and uses for some of it, all scattered about her vanity; Parrish's dog tags laying carefully across the white wood.

A cluster of photos sat in a tree-shaped wire display rack, all of friends from Beacon Hills. He was surprised to see Jackson still amongst them, but considering how long they'd been together, it made sense. Hard to forget one's first love. He himself still had a few photos of himself and Paige in a box in his family's attic somewhere.

He smiled at the huge grins on the faces of Lydia and Allison, at Scott's lopsided smile in a photo of him with his then-girlfriend, at the toothy grins all three—plus Stiles—wore in a pic of them in their maroon graduation gowns. He caught sight of a photo of himself and Stiles amongst the cluster, him grimacing slightly as his then-boyfriend planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. A wistful smile formed on his face, remembering that group trip to the beach and being stuck in a car with a loud Stiles, constantly debating Lydia, and a grumpy Cora, none of them agreeing on music choice, before Derek had snarled that he was driving so therefore he picked the music, before grumbling that Allison probably wasn't dealing with that crap in her car full of Scott, Malia, and Danny.

He turned away from the photos and the memories they conjured up, smiled a little at the presence of a few shots of Parrish lining her mirror, some of them including herself, shot selfie-style. Stepping across the room, he glanced over the pile of wrapped presents, all in the same red wrapping paper covered with white snowflakes. Derek couldn't help but notice that it matched the bag he'd grabbed at the grocery store he'd stopped at in his way to Lydia's, wondering if it was some sort of sign from the universe or some other cheesy bullshit like that.

Bare feet padded on the carpet, getting louder as Lydia returned, glass clinking in her hand as she shut her door. Not turning to face her, he pointed to the presents with one hand, the other shoved in the pocket of his jeans.

"You talked to Stiles then?" he questioned, already knowing the answer.

She stopped at his left, placing two squat glasses and an unopened jug of Trop 50 orange juice on the dresser, using the furniture as a makeshift bar. "Mmhmm," she grumbled, lips pursed and eyes slightly narrowed.

Derek nodding, figuring as much, remembering Stiles' habit of trying to win over Lydia's affections with an overabundance of gifts. Some things apparently hadn't changed, although the Kitsune was no longer trying to win her love, but her forgiveness.

She handed Derek the bottle of vodka to open as she shook the jug of juice, the two working together to put their make their drinks. "He makes it hard to be mad at him," she confessed lowly, scent almost reluctant and slightly ashamed.

He sighed out a "yeah", thinking back to bright smiles and near kisses from earlier that day. "I wanna be so pissed at him for leaving like that and not keeping in touch or telling me what the hell was going on, but—" he paused, sighing again, mixing his drink with a disposable straw Lydia handed him. "But then my wolf chimes in and just wants to rub all over him and my human self wants to tie the guy up so he can't ever leave again."

She snorted at that, muttering "among other reasons" with a smirk she barely hid with her glass. She took a sip and nodded approvingly, letting out a satisfied "ah" before capping the OJ.

"I get it though," she replied honestly, padding over to her bed and sinking down onto it, leg tucked under herself. "I can't decide if I wanna beat him senseless with a Jimmy Choo or squeeze him so tight he can't escape."

Derek nodded as he stared down at his drink, swirling the orange liquid around. That was exactly why he'd decided to go to Lydia's, out of all the places in Beacon Hills he could escape to. Because she understood, she got those vacillating emotions when it came to Stiles: the confusion over how to react to his presence, the joy over having him back, and the anger regarding his leaving in the first place. It was a mindfuck of sorts and Derek had no idea how to begin to get his head straight when it came to how he felt about his ex.

"You still love him, don't you?" she asked softly, pillow in her lap, clasping her glass in both hands on top of it.

"Yeah," he breathed out, raising his own glass to his mouth. "The asshole."

She twisted her lips to the side as she nodded. "He explained it all to me," she stated, tucking a loose section of hair behind her ear. "And while I understand, to a degree, his reasons for leaving and seeking help, it's hard to completely forgive him for all the hurt."

"He says he's gonna make it up to me, to us," Derek informed her, scratching his whisker-covered jaw. "But that's a wait and see kinda thing." He shrugged and sipped his drink again, honestly not sure which outcome he'd prefer. Nothing would make him happier than to have Stiles back in his life on a permanent basis, the two of them returning to how their relationship was before. But he was afraid that having the younger man back would mean a lifetime of worrying whether or not he was gonna up and leave at a moment's notice again. In that case, it would be better to just not have Stiles around in the first place and he could adjust to being half a person forever, no more wondering if his ex would return and what he would do if that happened.

Lydia sighed, body slumping with the action, shaking her head to flip back hair that was already tied up. "I think what you need right now is a distraction," she decided, straightening back up as her take charge attitude gained control. "Two hours of not thinking about anything or anyone."

He cocked an eyebrow, green orbs slipping to the flatscreen TV affixed to the wall opposite the end of her bed. "By watching 'Love Actually'?" he questioned dubiously, face full of "you can't be serious".

She downed the rest of her drink, cheeks puffed out from the excess liquid before she swallowed it all down. Wiggling her glass in his direction, she gave him a saccharine sweet smile, batting her eyelashes at him. "And making us another drink, yes."

He rolled his eyes but did as he was told, gulping down the rest of his own before making them another. Lydia laid out along her bed on her stomach, pillow under her upper chest and head down by the end of the bed, feet in the air with her ankles crossed. She gave him a sweet thanks when he handed her her drink, complimenting him on a job well done.

"Made enough of these for you," he pointed out as he sat on the floor and leaned back against the footboard. "Should know by now how strong you want it."

She playfully smacked the top of his head with the remote, he chuckling in response as she started the movie over. "How'd you know this was 'Love Actually' anyway?" she questioned as the montage of airport arrivals began.

"I have two sisters, a female cousin, and a female best friend," he pointed out flatly. "How could I not know?"

She let out a "hmm", seeing his point, reaching down with her now empty hand to scratch at his scalp. He sank down where he was sitting, relaxing into her touch while he got lost in other people's Christmas themed romantic problems, his own seeming miles away. He didn't bother telling Lydia she was right about him needing a distraction. He had a feeling she already knew.

Chapter Text

Derek wound up making two more drinks for each of them before the movie was over, Lydia passing out around the time the young boy Sam was sneaking past airport security to say goodbye to his crush Joanna. He covered her up with a cashmere blanket that'd been folded up on her armchair and finished watching the movie purely out of principal of the thing, and on the off-chance she woke up before it ended. When she hadn't risen when the end credits began rolling, he ended the movie and switched off all the devices. He silently moved about as he put on his leather jacket then gathered the glasses and remains of the Trop 50, cutting off the light and shutting the door as he slipped out.

Natalie was passed out on a couch in the living room, allowing him to safely put the OJ in the fridge and the glasses in the dishwasher before leaving the house entirely. The drive home was made in silence, mind relaxed and thoughts dulled from the alcohol. He knew it was only temporary though, the warm fuzziness he originally gained from it already fading thanks to his Werewolf metabolism. Annoying, but also good since it allowed him to safely drive home.

His building was still awake as people stretched their holiday celebrations into the night, joyous music blasting from doors, toys being played with, video games enjoyed, couples rejoicing in more carnal ways. He blocked those sounds out, partially out of privacy and respect, partially for his own sanity as he tried to keep his alcohol buzz from morphing into an aroused one. Last thing he needed to do was booty call his ex.

Who was currently sitting back against his door.

Derek paused at the end of the hall upon sighting Stiles seated there, one knee cocked up, elbow resting on it as he repeatedly ran his hand through his hair. He imagined his own fingers being able to do just that, tried to conjure up how it would to feel to have soft locks sifting between the digits rather than short fuzz tickling his palms.

He shoved the thought away, snapping back to reality. Head tilted down, he sorted out his keys, finding the one for his loft as he scuffed his way over. He had no idea why his ex was there, especially after they'd seen each other only a few hours before, wondered if this was part of his plan to make things up to the Werewolf and earn his trust back.

Stiles rose to his feet, wiping off the ass of his jeans as he stepped to the side. "Know what I don't get?" he questioned, not bothering with any sort of greeting—typical Stiles really—rubbing his hands to get rid of the dust and dirt.

"Why you're at my apartment?" Derek deadpanned as he unlocked the door and slid it open, leaving it that way, knowing the younger man was gonna follow him inside whether Derek wanted him to or not.

"Nope," Stiles replied, popping the "p" as he did exactly what Derek predicted he would do, stepping inside and shutting the door behind himself. "How'd they know Parrish was a Supe?"

The Werewolf deposited his keys and jacket on the kitchen counter before snatching two bottles of water out the fridge, handing one to his guest. "What are you talking about?"

"The killers," the younger man clarified, plopping down into one of the stools. "They killed Daehler because he was a witness, right? Wrong place, wrong time. Any other deputy in that position would've met the same fate."

Derek nodded as he leaned back against the counter by the fridge, following the logic so far. "Right."

"Parrish on the other hand was abducted and taken somewhere else to be set on fire while some bigoted asshole ranted about Supes being an abomination and they had to rid the world of them or whatever bullshit it was Haigh spouted," the Kitsune continued, hands flailing as he spoke. "Why didn't they just shoot Parrish on the spot to get rid of another witness? Why this specific death with an anti-Supe speech?"

The older man raised his eyebrows, his Mate having made a good point. There was no way anyone in the group of killers could've known that Parrish had latent Kitsune powers, not when the man himself had no clue about it. He'd believed he was a regular human, and everyone else thought the same thing about him. How exactly could a group of anti-Supes who more than likely didn't even know Parrish be aware of what he really was?

"Something else to ask when we get the bastards," Derek declared, drinking from his water bottle. "But I don't think you came all the way over here to ask that, not when you could've just called or text." He gave the other male a pointed look, one that said he knew Stiles better than that.

His ex shifted in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "I also came with info and I didn't wanna say it over the phone."

Derek raised an eyebrow at that, then set aside his bottle before folding his arms over his chest. "Go on," he prompted, narrowing his eyes as he focused.

Stiles stared at his own bottle, spinning it on the counter as he spoke. "I stopped by Scott's earlier and talked to his beta Liam, the one I told you about earlier?" He glanced up at the older man to make sure he knew who he was referring to. "Liam mentioned there was a new kid on his team named Garrett who was an anti-Supe prick, constantly using slurs and making derogatory comments towards Liam, and targeting any Supe on the field during games or even scrimmages and roughing them up more than human players."

Derek frowned at him. "Being a prick doesn't make him a killer," he pointed out. And while Stiles had theorized that one of the perps they were looking for possibly played lacrosse for Beacon Hills High, that didn't automatically mean any bigoted asshole with a crosse was their doer.

Stiles bobbed his eyebrows and nodded his head in a "true" fashion, before peering up at the other male with a pointed look. "Garrett also keeps bragging about recently being adopted by a smoking hot blonde who taught him how to shoot a shotgun and skin an animal, as well as bought him a set of knives as a recent birthday gift back in November."

The Werewolf had flashes of Laura's Mating ceremony and the one member of Argent's family—besides Allison, of course—who'd shown at the reception: a blonde woman with sharp features and a love of sharper knives, proving claws weren't needed to eviscerate someone.

"Kate," he snarled, remembering her come-ons to him, how she'd used derogatory comments regarding him being a good lil doggy and servicing her like the bitch in heat he would be in winter. Her cutting smile had made his wolf whimper and her biting remarks had left him nauseous. Argent himself had to be the one to get her to leave, she smirking wickedly on her way out, telling her brother to enjoy his new pet.

She'd left town soon after, when a Pack the next town over had been killed in a fire. No suspects were ever brought in, no charges ever brought up, no evidence ever found. People suspected her, gossip swirling over the timing of her sudden departure, but since there was no proof, all it'd been were rumors and whispers.

Stiles nodded as he drank his water, lips surrounding the entire mouth of the bottle. "Most likely, yeah," he agreed, twisting the cap back on. "Liam said he had no clue what her name was and that Garrett was still going by his original surname, although he was thinking of changing it to his new mom's."

Pushing away from the counter, Derek snatched up his keys and jacket, plan swirling in his head. Stiles straightened in his seat, brow furrowing, confusion and excitement flooding his scent.

"Where're you going?" he questioned, sliding off his stool as the Werewolf rounded the counter.

"My sister's," he informed him gruffly, slipping his jacket on. "I need to ask Argent if he recently acquired a teenaged nephew."

"I'm coming with you." The younger man fell into step with him, the two striding towards the door.

"I figured," Derek muttered, leaping up to the platform by the front door and forgoing the steps altogether, Stiles doing the same. He turned to his ex, noticing he was in the same flannel and tee as earlier, the Werewolf's brow drawing in concern. "Where's your jacket?"

Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Don't need one. I run at a higher temp than you these days. And even if I did get cold, I can make fire." He grinned widely, eyebrows wagging, scent full of pride as he puffed out his chest.

Derek's eyes flicked down, once again curious as to what was hidden beneath better fitting shirts, shaking his head to snap out of it. Slipping off his jacket, he held it out to his Mate, growling at him to put it on. Stiles huffed but did as he was told, holding his arms out to the side and making a face that wordlessly asked if the Werewolf was happy. Nodding once, the older man kept his features flat, hiding just how happy the sight of his Mate in his clothes, wearing his scent, made him.

But from the way his heart began pounding and his scent flooded with happiness and Stiles smiled warmly, he figured the Kitsune knew anyway.

Argent was the one to answer the door, eyebrows raising in surprise as he took in both his guests. "Derek," he greeted flatly, peering around him. "Stiles. What brings you here?"

"We need to talk about your hunch," the deputy insisted, arms folded over his chest and eyes narrowed, just daring the human to say no.

Argent didn't say anything, but his Mate called through from the interior of the apartment, stating there was no work on Christmas.

"Killers don't take holidays off, Laur," Derek replied, not bothering to yell since she'd hear it anyway.

She let out an annoyed groan, followed by the sound of something big hitting fabric and foam. Knowing how dramatic his sister was, she had probably flopped over on the couch to show how hard things were for her and how totally unfair this all was.

Her Mate shrugged a shoulder before inviting his guests in with a sweep of the arm, instructing them to go into the office. Once all three were in the room and the door was shut, he explained the move.

"This room is soundproofed against Supes, for the rare occasion I'm working on a case that's need-to-know only," he informed them, rounding the desk and standing behind it. "Bedroom's the same way."

"But I doubt any work is getting done in there," Stiles commented with a smirk. "Just someone getting worked over." He winked as he rocked in place, earning two glares, his face falling into an expression of innocent confusion. "What?"

Derek rolled his eyes and smeared a hand over his face before turning to his brother-in-law, choosing to ignore his Mate and his idiotic—and inappropriate—reference to his sister's sex life. "This morning you told me you had a hunch regarding my case," he started, moving to stand opposite the older man across his large desk, Celtic five-fold knot on full display in the mix of woods. "It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with your family, would it?"

Argent tipped his chin and folded his arms over his chest, body tensing up in a defensive manner. "It's a possibility," he admitted, taut jaw making his words more of a rumble than usual.

Derek noted the steady heartbeat, the calm exterior of the man across from him, but didn't take it to mean anything. As a Hunter, Argent had been trained to control his emotions, to remain calm and stoic in all situations, to escape imprisonment and handle torture. If he was feeling protective of his family—even a family he'd turned his back on and cut all ties to—he'd be calling upon that training to cover up any misdoings on their part, meaning taking visual or auditory cues to detect lies or any subtle giveaways wasn't an option.

"Would it involve your sister and a teenage boy she recently adopted?" Derek inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

The older man's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a barely there tick Derek only saw due to Supe eyes and intense concentration. "Garrett," Argent clarified stoically. "But I have a feeling you already knew that."

Stiles glanced at Derek, the Werewolf noticing the movement out the corner of his eye. "You think they have something to do with these murders, don't you?" Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the desk, getting closer to the older man.

Argent didn't flinch, except for a shrug. "Like I said, it's just a hunch," he stated, not agreeing or denying. "There's no proof of it, just like there's no proof Kate set that fire five years ago."

"But you think she did it?" Stiles chimed in, stepping closer.

The ex-Hunter leveled his cold eyes on the Kitsune and Derek felt the overwhelming need to hide Stiles behind his back and protect him. He had to remind himself that his Mate could take care of himself and that Argent was no longer a threat.

As far as Derek knew anyway.

"Wouldn't surprise me," the older man admitted before turning back to the deputy. "My father raised us with very narrow-minded beliefs, teaching us that Supernaturals were all abominations and that it was up to us to cleanse the world of these monsters. I never fully bought into it, but Kate worshiped him like a god and took his word for absolute truth. It's not much of a stretch to believe that she'd set a house on fire to kill an entire Pack in one sweep, or that she'd adopt a child with the sole purpose of raising him to be a killer like herself and use him like a weapon."

"Mother of the year right there," Stiles muttered, Derek snorting in amusement and agreement.

"You find evidence that my sister is behind all this and I'll help you haul her in," Argent offered, pointing to his desk for emphasis. "People like her, my father, and their little group of killers, they're the real monsters in this situation and the world would be better off without them."

Derek nodded once in agreement, jaw gritting in determination. A million ideas were running through his head and if all went according to plan, he'd be able to solve this case before anyone even so much as thought the phrase "they found another body".

"I'm gonna find proof," he vowed, tone as grave as his promise. He thanked Argent for his help before leaving the room and the apartment, Stiles trailing behind and hollering a goodbye and a Merry Christmas to both residents of the apartment.

The elevator doors opened as soon as the "down" button was hit, both men stepping inside the cart and Derek depressing the button for the lobby.

"If my theory is correct," the Werewolf began, scowling at the closed doors as the elevator descended. "Then Gerard Argent was the old man Parrish saw when he was set on fire."

"I'm glad I know he's a Kasai like me, otherwise that would make zero fucking sense," Stiles pointed out, smirking slightly before getting serious. "What now?"

"We're heading to the station to check some shit out and make sure Garrett really is the lacrosse player we're looking for."

The smirk returned, whiskey eyes sparkling as they focused on Derek, scent bright and happy. "'We'?" he double checked, amusement and joy evident in his voice.

Derek sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's either I willingly let you tag along where I can keep an eye on you or you follow me anyway and I have no way of knowing if you're okay or not," he explained, giving the younger man a pointed look.

Stiles simply grinned, elbowing him in the ribs in a playful manner. "Just admit it, Liar Wolf: you know we make a great team."

Derek rolled his eyes again as the elevator stopped with a ding and the doors slid open. He wasn't admitting to anything like that, no matter how true it might've been. Besides, he really was trying to keep an eye on Stiles. The guy was a Supe now, and even if he wasn't, these killers somehow seemed to know people had latent Supe powers—as evidenced by the attempted murder of Parrish. Whether he realized it or not, Stiles had gotten a target painted on him the second he came back to town. And Derek wasn't about to lose his Mate, not again and not on a permanent basis like that.

They ended up taking a detour before heading in to the station, Derek having called up Boyd—who he knew was currently on duty—and gotten some info out of him. Security cameras from the store where the prepaid cells had been purchased didn't show the kid's face, a dark hood pulled up to hide his features. He'd been trained well, Derek had to admit it, a fact that wasn't all that surprising considering who his adoptive mother was.

Stiles managed to find Garrett's Facebook and the twosome headed to the store Boyd named as the one the phones had been purchased at. Slipping on his sheriff's jacket, he lucked out by finding Heather behind the counter, flashing his badge to show he was official and asking if the boy displayed on the phone screen was the one his fellow deputy had inquired about earlier. The quick "yes" she gave was all he needed and he thanked her before hurrying out to his car and a waiting Stiles, driving them to the sheriff's department.

The station was sparsely populated when they arrived, Derek thanking whoever was upstairs that Boyd seemed to be the only other one around. The beta tended to mind his own business, although he'd been known to raise a judgmental eyebrow or two when the situation called for it.

Derek pulled up a chair next to his desk for Stiles, ordering him to sit and stay put. The Kitsune mock-saluted and did as he was told, peering at the deputy's screen as he logged on.

"Wanna tell me what that phone call was about?" Boyd questioned from his desk across the room, turning to look at the other beta with a raised eyebrow.

He mouthed the word "lead", not wanting to say it out loud for fear of McCall having spies planted in the station who would run off to their boss and tell on Derek for not sharing info as ordered. Boyd nodded once, stoic features betraying nothing, then turned back to his own work, minding his own business.

A quick Google search allowed Derek to find a good shot of Gerard Argent in no time and he snapped a pic with his phone before sending it to Parrish, asking if that was the old man he'd witnessed. He got an immediate "yes" and he threw his arms in the air in victory. Finally! A fucking lead that didn't end with them slamming into a brick wall.

"Wanna tell me what you're doing here when I sent you home six hours ago?"

Derek shifted his victorious move into a stretch as a cover, looking over his computer monitor to find his boss glaring down at him. Stiles flailed as he turned to his dad, plastering a grin on his face.

"He-ey, Pops!" he greeted, voice shaky with nerves at being busted. "We were waiting on you so we can escort you home."

Stilinski pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed, sounding like he couldn't believe he'd had a part in creating that. "Son, for a fox, you are a terrible liar," he commented as he crossed his arms.

"Whaaaaat?" The Kitsune in question dropped his mouth open as he faked offense, hand flying to his chest. "I'm offended, Dad. You hurt me in my soul. I don't think I'm ever gonna get over this. It'll take years of thera—"

Derek slapped a hand over his Mate's mouth and effectively ended his ramble. "We found a possible lead and wanted to investigate it as soon as possible," he explained, using the truth this time.

Stiles licked his palm and pulled a face, not happy with the older man's actions. Derek glared at him. Stiles flipped him off.

The sheriff sighed again, muttering about how he'd forgotten how much trouble the two of them were together.

"In my defense, sir," Derek objected. "Stiles and I together are nowhere near as bad as Stiles and Scott together."

Stilinski bobbed his head as he conceded the point. "Stiles, break room," he ordered, pointing to the hall behind him with his thumb then turning to his deputy. "You, my office."

Both men rose and headed straight where they were told to go, the sheriff following Derek into his office, leaving the door open.

"What lead could you have potentially stumbled upon while at home?" Stilinski questioned dubiously as he rounded his desk and sank down into his chair.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Derek stood opposite him, trying his best to maintain that balance between assertive and submissive, knowing he was right and not wanting to step on his boss' toes. "Remember Stiles' belief that the perp was a lacrosse player at Beacon Hills High?"

The sheriff narrowed his eyes, bottom teeth showing as he bobbed his head on a "yeah".

"Upon receiving an anonymous tip," he sated carefully, cautious not to get his Mate in trouble by saying he broke the law by conducting his own investigation and interviewing someone under false pretenses. "We did some research and found a player named Garrett Smith who is known for spewing anti-Supe epithets and just so happens to have been recently adopted by Kate Argent."

His boss' eyebrows raised at that and he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in a casual manner. "She doesn't strike me as the maternal type," he deadpanned, getting a snort out of his deputy.

"No kidding," he muttered, scratching at his jaw as he continued. "We showed his picture to the cashier who sold the prepaid cells, getting a positive ID, and Parrish identified Gerard Argent as Haigh's accomplice at the fire."

Stilinski nodded, repeatedly smearing his hand over his mouth and jaw, the rasp on a day's worth of stubble loud in Derek's ears. "And you got all of this from a so-called anonymous source?" he double-checked, leaning forward and resting his arms on his desk, one hand aimed towards his deputy. "And just so we're clear, I'm well aware of Stiles' habit of getting involved in criminal investigations rather than doing his homework, so don't think for a second that you're successfully covering his ass."

The Werewolf felt the tips of his ears heat up as he was busted, but kept his features flat. Years of getting his ass kicked at cards by Cora had honed his poker face and he put that practice to good use at that moment.

"Your silence says more than you think," Stilinski commented, only receiving a shrug. He let out a sigh, head hanging, hand working the back of his neck. "As glad as I am to see you two actually talking and spending time together and as thankful as I am that you guys have found a huge lead that has potentially solved this case." He paused, raising his head and holding his hands out in a helpless manner. His scent was defeated and apologetic, blue eyes full of sadness, lips curved down at the corners. "We can't use it. Any good defense attorney would have the discovery thrown out based upon the fact that a non-law enforcement agent obtained the original information."

A long sigh made its way out of Derek, his head hanging off slumped shoulders as he nodded. "I get it," he muttered. And he did. He understood how the legal system worked and that the sheriff was completely right in what he'd said.

Didn't mean it didn't completely suck ass though.

"McCall looked for Brunski earlier," his boss switched topics, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands on his stomach. "Guy's in the wind. We can't find him anywhere."

The deputy raised his head at that, frowning slightly. "Think someone tipped him off that we were looking for him?"

Stilinski shrugged. "That, or he realized we'd be after him when he heard the news that we'd made an arrest."

"Anyone search his place?"

"Only to see if he was hiding in a closet," his boss stated, reaching for his Beacon County Sheriff's Department mug and drinking deeply. "Can't look for any evidence without a warrant."

Another nod was his response, several swears echoing in his mind. He really hated the system sometimes. Made it hard as fuck to do his job of bringing in the bad guys and helping protect the good ones, getting justice for victims and putting away those who wished to do harm to even more of them. It was really putting a damper on his childhood dream of being hero.

Reality was the worst sometimes.

"Go home, son," Stilinski suggested, voice dripping with concern. "Get some sleep. You look like hell."

He let out a weak "yes, sir", shuffling his way out his boss' office, shoulders slumped in defeat. His mind kept running over all the evidence he and Stiles had ascertained over the past couple hours, hating that it was all being tossed to the side, trying to figure out how they could rediscover it in a more legal way that would allow them to put the bad guys behind bars.

Shoving it all aside, he headed to the break room to meet up with Stiles and give him a ride home. Only he wasn't in there. Scenting the air, Derek found him across the room in the locker room, straddling a bench, drumming an absent tune on the wood. His shoulders were slumped, head hanging, scent of defeat and upset rolling off him.

"You don't have to fill me in," he stated lowly, smearing his hand under his nose. "A fox's hearing is actually more powerful than a wolf's."

Derek raised his eyebrows, impressed by the fact, shuffling over and leaning back against a row of lockers to his Mate's left. "The system fucking sucks," he muttered, roughing over his face with both hands. "You need evidence in order to obtain a warrant, but you need a warrant in order to look for evidence." He leaned his head back against the metal, sighing as he stared at the ceiling. "And we were so fucking close to wrapping this whole thing up."

"So we need to find another way to connect Garrett to this whole thing, right?"

"Yeah," he answered then swallowed. "But Haigh isn't talking without a lawyer and we don't have a good enough reason to talk to any lacrosse players that would hold up in court."

The Kitsune breathed out a swear, the word muffled by his hand smearing over his face. "Maybe we can find some way to connect Garrett to Brunski," he suggested, sounding hopeful.

"Can't find Brunski though. And I already looked into his background and there's no connections between him, lacrosse, or Beacon Hills High."

Silence descended over the two down and defeated men, Stiles fingers now drumming on his thighs, head turning as he gazed around the room. His scent turned to something hopeful, causing Derek to lower his head and look at him with a cocked eyebrow.

"Lockers aren't private property," the younger man stated thoughtfully, wagging a finger, eyes narrowed as he contemplated something. "They belong to whatever building they're located in: schools, sheriff's departments, hospitals."

Derek pushed away from the lockers, feeling his own hope grow. "You don't need a warrant," he added, following the other man's train of thought, smirk forming on his face. "Just an administrator's permission."

Stiles beamed up at him, naughty glint in his eyes, scent full of joy and excitement once more. "Think Eichen House has a locker room?"

"Only one way to find out."

At that, he strode out the locker room, Stiles hot on his trail, a Plan B already being set in motion.

Derek's loft was on the way to Eichen House so he quickly stopped in and changed into a clean uniform, figuring things would work in his favor better if he looked more professional and legit.

The administrator they needed was a petite dark skinned woman with short black curls and a take-no-shit attitude named Rhonda. She didn't seem all that surprised that Brunski was in trouble with the law, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms and cocked her hip out.

"Figured that when a guy from the SRB showed up lookin' for him," she stated. "Not to mention the fact that he's a prick. Ego bigger than this entire hospital."

Stiles muttered that he wasn't surprised, Rhonda giving an agreeing "mmhmm".

"Anyway, I'd love to help you boys out, but Brunski doesn't have a locker."

Derek sighed as his body slumped in disappointment, that all too familiar feeling of ramming into a dead end taking over. He turned to Stiles, ready to tell him it'd been worth a shot but they should really just call it a night and head home, only to be cut off by Rhonda.

"He's got an office I can letcha in, though."

Derek wanted to kiss the woman.

The office in question was barely bigger than a closet, walls a sterile white, a low row of file cabinets lining the back wall, underneath a window of double-paned glass with chicken wire between the layers, a metal desk and chair in front of it. Piles of paper lay scattered about, desk covered with more of it along with dirty mugs, chewed on pens, and various pieces of trash. The air was thick with the scents of dust and mold, along with anger and disgust, hatred so strong Derek could practically taste it.

He turned to see Stiles burying his nose in the collar of his borrowed leather jacket, eyes crinkled at the corners from his nose scrunching up. The older man gave him a sympathetic smile, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulder blades. It was easy to commiserate, to feel his pain, Derek barely able to resist burying his own nose in his ex's hair in order to fill his lungs with something more pleasant.

A laugh snorted out from behind, the deputy turning to see an amused smile on Rhonda's face. "Smells like a landfill, huh?"

"You have no idea," Stiles muttered through his leather shield, kicking at an empty paper coffee cup laying in the ground.

She wished them luck before leaving them to it, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. The two men turned to face each other, the younger raising his eyebrows in question.

"What now, Boss Wolf?"

Derek glanced around the room again, honestly not entirely sure where to start. Really the best plan was to just dive right in, no matter how terrible the smell, and hope they find buried treasure somewhere deep within the ocean of mess.

Or some sorta metaphor like that.

"Desk first," he suggested, thinking it was as good a place as any. "File cabinets are probably off limits since they more than likely contain patient information."

His Mate gave him another mock-salute before they both headed over to the mentioned furniture item. Derek sat in the chair and took the top drawer on the left, Stiles crouching down and going for the large bottom one on the right, only to be unable to open it.

"Must be hiding something good if it's locked," he commented, reaching into his back pocket to slide out his wallet and grab the lock-picking kit the Werewolf knew he kept in there.

The older man let out an agreeing hum, finding a cheap day-planner with a fake black leather cover, the gold lettering partially scratched off. A red ribbon attached at the spine was holding Brunski's place towards the back of it and the deputy used it to flip the book open. The two pages were broken down into seven columns, one for each day, blocks created for every hour of the day.

He quickly scanned scribbled notes, finding his work schedule and noting that Brunski was actually supposed to have gone in that day. A red star was drawn over the date of the Wolcott murders, "BH Mem" scrawled the next day, in the hour block when Parrish was scheduled to start his guard duty.

As if it wasn't already obvious he was the guy who'd abducted the deputy.

The sound of a lock opening caught his attention and he peered down to see Stiles sliding the drawer out, grinning in victory. "Thanks, Pops," he stated with vigor, referring to the man who'd taught him how to pick open locks "only in case you lose your keys and can't get into the house when I'm not home".

The Werewolf snorted, turning back to what he'd been doing. "I'm sure he's real proud right now," he deadpanned with an eye roll.

"Shut it, Snark Wolf."

Derek didn't even dignify that with a response, focusing solely in his own task and blocking out the sounds of rustling papers.

Flipping back through previous pages, he caught sight of a recurring appointment, not surprise to find it there in the slightest. "This guy is a member of ALPH."

Stiles popped his head up at that, frowning in confusion. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"The American League for a Pure Humanity," Derek reminded him, sneering. "They hold meetings and demonstrations where they discuss how all Supes are abominations and are responsible for all the evil in the world, getting away with it by hiding behind the First Amendment and claiming they're non-violent so they have a right to their opinion."

The Kitsune snorted and rolled his eyes. "They need to add 'Assholes' to the end of their name," he snarked before breaking out in a grin and barking out a laugh. "Their initials would be ALPHA then. It would be too perfect and ironic."

The deputy just shook his head at the terrible joke, flipping through the day-planner and not finding anything else incriminating. There was no mention of any Argent, just ALPH meetings and stars by dates he was pretty sure where when the murders took place. But any lawyer could argue that the marks were made after news broke of the killings and being a member of ALPH didn't make one a murderer, just a close-minded jackass.

"Maybe I should go undercover at one of those meetings," Stiles suggested, eyes focused on going through a shoebox marked "receipts" in barely legible chicken scratch handwriting. "I could get some dirt, find out what they know, see if it's ALPH or some sorta radical subgroup, ya know?" He peered up at Derek from where he was now sitting on the dirty floor, legs crossed in front of him. "I'm a trickster now. I could totally do it." He grinned mischievously, wagging his eyebrows, scent full of excitement and hope.

Derek considered it for about two seconds before going with a no. He wasn't about to risk Stiles' life and safety like that. Even if he were the best trickster on the planet, there was always the chance he could be found out and the group of anti-Supes would tear him apart, insistences that they were non-violent or not.

Besides, there was no time for that. Undercover jobs like that could take weeks, months, sometimes even years before they gathered enough info to make their case and who knew how many Supes would be killed by them in the meantime?

He shook his head, explaining his reasons and trying not to react at how Stiles lit up over his concern for his safety, his wolf wagging its tail excitedly.

"Besides," Derek added on, searching through the drawer and finding an ALPH flier. "You're too recognizable. Anyone who sees you would instantly know you're the sheriff's kid and it'd raise a lotta suspicions." He flipped the flier over, finding two phone numbers scrawled in Brunski's handwriting, a "K" beside one and a "G" beside the other. Interesting.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his hair repeatedly, mussing it all up. "Really? But I grew my hair out and everything," he pouted.

"Moles, Stiles," Derek pointed out, closing one drawer and opening another. He got a "humph" in response, papers shuffling beside him again, and he gave in to the urge to ruffle his hand through the guy's hair, luxuriating in the feel of soft strands sifting between his fingers. "Why did you grow your hair out?" he questioned, not finding anything of any use in the second drawer. "Thought you liked the buzzcut."

The younger man shrugged, still sorting through various receipts. "Nah. I kept the buzzcut 'cause you liked it."

Derek paused at that, turning to his ex, eyes wide in surprise. A warmth flooded his chest, feeling touched that Stiles had put his opinion above his own and did whatever made the Werewolf happy, even if it wasn't what he himself wanted.

Mates.

"I never said that," he whispered absently, barely aware he was even talking. "I actually like it longer like that."

Stiles dropped his hands onto his lap with a huff, inadvertently crinkling papers. "We really need to work on our communication."

The Werewolf snorted and muttered out a "no shit", rolling his eyes as he returned to his task. Silence fell over them as they both focused on what they were doing, Stiles unsurprisingly the one who broke it.

"What kind of gun did Parrish say Brunski had?"

"Walther with Punisher grips and a silencer," he responded, tugging out a large tan envelope that had been taped to the bottom of the drawer. "Why?"

Stiles held up a few sheets of paper, victorious smile on his face. "Firearm bill of sale for a Walther PPQ, a suppressor, and an eBay receipt for a set of Punisher grips."

"Perfect," Derek grinned back, opening the envelope and slipping out the pieces of paper held within.

"What'd you find?" the Kitsune asked, lifting up off the ground slightly so he could take a peek.

"Not sure," he murmured, looking it over. At first glance, it appeared to be a couple ordinary sheets of lined paper, the kind school kids everywhere used, a list of some sort written in an elegant cursive handwriting, much better and neater than Brunski's chicken scratch. But upon further inspection, he noticed the list was comprised of a bunch of names, the ones at the top crossed off.

DeMarco Montana.
Carrie Hudson.
Micheal Wolcott.
Christina Wolcott.
David Wolcott.
Sean Wolcott.
Alexander Ennis.

"It's a list of names," he explained, reading further, recognizing some of the names. Ennis' Mate Kali, Parrish, Lydia, Satomi and the few members of her pack that he actually remembered, Scott and his beta Liam, members of his own family, and himself.

And at the very end, scrawled in Brunski's handwriting, was Stiles' name.

His eyes went wide, heart stopping dead in his chest before dropping to his stomach. He felt his lungs freeze in his too tight chest and felt his entire body go numb with dread.

Stiles' own scent reflected his, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "What names?" he rasped out quietly, knuckles going white as he clenched his fingers into fists.

"Supes in Beacon County," Derek answered, pausing to turn to Stiles. "It's a list of targets. And we're on there."

The Kitsune went pale, scent reeking of fear and anxiety, causing a murderous sort of intent taking over Derek. They were gonna bring in these killer assholes and throw them in jail to rot, or Derek was gonna find them and kill them himself. Either way, he wasn't letting any of them lay a finger on his Mate.

The drive to their next stop was tense, silent, neither in the mood for talking. They didn't find anything else relevant in Brunski's office, just more paraphernalia for ALPH and a charger cord for a taser—perfectly legal, of course.

After bagging up the planner, bills of sales, receipt, and list, they got back in Derek's Toyota and headed to their next destination. Stiles didn't say anything, other than a dubious "how the hell'd they know about me?" when he first got in the passenger seat, spending the rest of the ride with his knee bouncing and his thumbnail between his teeth.

Unable to resist, Derek had reached over and placed a hand on his Mate's knee, the one that wasn't shaking, noting how some of the anxiety and tension bled out of his scent and his muscles.

He parked the SUV down the street from where he wanted to go, trying not to make it obvious what he was about to do. Stiles' frowned in confusion as the engine was killed, looking out the windows at their surroundings.

"Where are we?" he questioned.

"Down the street from Brunski's apartment," the Werewolf explained, slipping out the keys and unbuckling his seat belt before getting out the car.

His Mate did the same, waiting for him on the sidewalk, puzzled expression still on his face. "Thought we couldn't search it without a warrant or the owner's permission."

"We can't," the deputy agreed, rounding the front of the engine and heading down the street at a casual yet hurried pace, Stiles quickly and easily falling into step on his right. "But we canlook for Brunski himself. If we happen to see anything out in the open that's relevant to our case, then it's admissible in court."

A smirk formed on the Kitsune's face, mischief and joy lighting up his scent. "I like your thinking, Sneaky Wolf," he commented, elbowing him playfully, hands in the pockets of his borrowed leather jacket.

The apartment building was still, quiet, something not all that surprising given it was three am and most of the world was fast asleep. In the back of Derek's mind, he registered the fact that it was technically no longer Christmas and his eyes automatically flicked over to Stiles standing beside him in the elevator, remembering three years prior when the then-teenager had cheekily told him that he'd gotten him the greatest gift ever: his virginity.

Stiles turned his head and met his gaze, brow furrowed in confusion but lips curved in amusement, small laugh being breathed out his nose. "What're you thinking about that's got you all happy?"

Derek snapped his head back to the front, schooling his features into a neutral expression. "Just that Christmas is now over," he half-lied, adding a nonchalant shrug for an extra effect.

The younger man's face fell, eyes focused on the floor as he let out a disappointed "oh".

The elevator dinged its arrival and the Werewolf led the way out, finding the right apartment by scent. Stiles picked the lock again, muttering about neither of them narcing him out to his dad, the two of them then slipping inside.

The light switch was easily found and flipped to "on", illuminating the space. The apartment was small, old, the smells of dozens of former residents seeped into the walls. The carpet was several shades of brown—although it was hard to tell if it was patterned that way on purpose or if it was years of stains—the walls a dirty off-white. None of the furniture matched: a plaid couch that smelled of cigarette smoke from its previous owner, burgundy recliner with a poorly stitched rip down the center, a scratched up coffee table and leaning TV stand, VCR on the shelf below. ALPH posters decorated the walls, months of back issues of their periodical scattered across the coffee table. In the near corner sat a square metal folding table being used as a dining table, covered in scraps of paper, two mismatched chairs tucked underneath with stacks of old newspapers sitting on each one.

"Smells just as bad as the office," Stiles commented, nose wrinkling in disgust.

Derek nodded, handing his Mate a pair of latex gloves before slipping on a pair himself. "No fingerprints," he pointed out. "Last thing we need is some asshole attorney arguing that we planted evidence before a proper legal search was conducted."

The Kitsune nodded in agreement, putting them on with a snap and a smirk, opening his mouth to speak.

The deputy held up a finger in warning, giving him a hard look. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'bend over', I will smash your head into a wall."

He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

The two began looking around, Stiles glancing at the framed posters on the wall and making derogatory comments, Derek shuffling the scraps of paper around on the makeshift dining table. A ton of random receipts laid on top, some for gas, most for take-out, making it obvious that this guy probably hadn't cooked a meal in his life. Derek snorted and rolled his eyes, sliding them to the side to check out what was underneath, finding newspaper clippings.

"He's cut out all the articles about the murders," he informed his unofficial partner, eyes scanning all the headlines.

"Guess he hasn't gotten around to putting them in his scrapbook yet," Stiles quipped from somewhere behind him. "Too busy killing innocent folks."

Derek frowned at that, thinking of the Wolcotts and the game locker full of human bodies they had stashed away, some of which were still being identified. He wasn't entirely sure how innocent that family was.

"Hey, Der? Come check this out."

The deputy shuffled the receipts back on top, trying to make it less obvious that someone had been moving things about, before making his way over to where Stiles stood in front of the couch, staring at the wall behind it. Derek followed his line of sight, discovering a multi-photo frame hanging there, the ALPH logo and motto—"For Those Who Dream of a Pure World Free of Monsters"—displayed prominently in the middle.

"It's from some sorta big California ALPH get-together up in San Fran," Stiles explained, pointing to a pin attached to the top left corner. "But take a look at the photos."

Derek did just that, finding a lot of familiar faces. In one, Brunski was standing with Haigh, both wielding cattle prods like weapons. In another, a familiar blond teen was cuddling a dark skinned female, he holding a hunting knife, she displaying what appeared to be a thermal cut wire styled as a necklace.

"It's the couple from the diner earlier," Derek pointed to the teens. "We were in the same place as Garrett Smith and had no idea."

"Would explain how they knew about me," the younger man stated. "They must've overheard our convo."

He shook his head in disagreement. "Wouldn't explain why Parrish is on there."

Stiles bobbed his head in concession, Derek checking out the rest of the pics. In the top middle, in one of the biggest spaces, was a photo of Brunski and Gerard Argent framing Kate, all three looking incredibly familiar and friendly with each other. And directly below that—and below the ALPH logo—was Kate standing behind Garrett, arms wrapped around his chest, head propped on his shoulder, both beaming at the camera.

"They know each other," he muttered absently, eyes flipping between each photo. "It's the connection we need to bring Garrett in."

When Stiles didn't respond, he turned his head and glanced at him, noting he was now beside the couch, head against the wall, peering at something along the side of the photo frame.

"What?"

"This frame isn't against the wall. There's something behind it making it stick out."

Curious, Derek grabbed hold of it and carefully lifted it off the nail it was hanging on, then leaned it on the stinky couch. Sure enough, a safe was hidden behind it, the digital keypad sticking out just enough so that the frame hiding it couldn't sit flush against the wall.

"Tell me that's what I think it is," Stiles requested, voice full of hope as he pointed as the gray metal.

With one knee seated in the couch, Derek leaned closer, scenting the safe, nose as close to the gap between the door and the frame of it as possible, inhaling whatever was inside without leaving any nose prints or DNA.

A grin broke out on his face, scent full of joy, causing Stiles' to do the same. "There's a gun inside, recently fired."

The Kitsune pumped a fist in the air, biting his lower lip as he smiled. "We got the bastard!"

"Or at least a search warrant to get him."

The younger man waved him off, starting a victory dance in the corner of the living room, grinning like an idiot. Derek couldn't help but smile back, having missed the guy and his terrible dance moves and dorky behavior, the expression falling upon hearing a familiar ringtone set for one particular person.

Shit.

He'd apparently said the word out loud because Stiles immediately stopped dancing, face and scent shifting to something more worried. "What?"

"It's your dad," Derek explained with a wince as he slid his phone out his pocket.

"Shit indeed."

He nodded as he slid to answer, still wincing as he out his phone up to his ear, giving his usual "Hale" greeting and feeling thankful that his nerves weren't evident in his voice.

"Get your ass back to the station and in my office now!" the sheriff barked down the line. "And bring my son with you." Without bothering to wait on a response, he hung up.

Derek stared down at his phone, swallowing hard as the screen faded to black and locked. Stiles' scent flooded with anxiety once more, hand working the back of his neck, grimace on his face.

"This is gonna be like that time we broke my curfew because we were too busy fooling around in the back of your Camaro, isn't it?"

The Werewolf shook his head while slipping his phone back into his slacks. "No. This is gonna be much worse."

"Shit."

Phrase of the hour right there.

Chapter Text

Stilinski was pissed.

Beyond pissed.

His scent was spiced with anger, face red, knuckles white as he clenched his fists on his desk, leaning forward in his chair as he glared up at his son and his deputy with eyes of blue fire.

Christ, Derek was gonna be lucky to get out of this one with his job still intact. He was gonna be riding a desk for a while, watching McCall take all the credit for solving this case—not that he wanted the credit for himself, it was more the principle of the thing—unable to help take down the bad guys he'd discovered with the evidence he'd found.

"You two," the sheriff grit out, jaw clenched, trying hard not to yell. It was a step beyond just being mad and shouting, making the man even scarier, and Derek felt his wolf whimpering from his own anxiety and his Mate's. "Better have a damn good reason for being at Brunski's apartment."

Oh fuck. It was worse than he'd thought.

Derek kept his poker face up, internally freaking out, wondering how in the hell Stilinski had known where they were. Were they that predictable to where he could just tell, could just correctly assume it? Was it fatherly or sheriffly intuition?

"We were checking to see if he'd returned," Derek lied convincingly, Stiles nodding casually on his right as he played along.

Stilinski stared dubiously up at them, brow furrowed, bottom teeth on display. "You do realize we have a patrol car stationed across the road from his building, right?" he pointed out, pointing a hand at them. "How else do you think I knew you were there?"

"Magical sheriff-slash-dad intuitive powers?" Stiles answered, wiggling his fingers in the air.

The older Stilinski stared at him with a look of complete unamusement and Stiles immediately sobered up, hands dropping to his sides and throat being cleared.

"I'm still waiting on your excuse," he pointed out, hard eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them.

Derek swallowed hard, scratching at his jaw. "We were looking for Brunski's gun," he admitted, dropping his hand before reaching into the pocket of his sheriff issue windbreaker. "We found a bill of sale for a Walther and suppressor that match what Parrish described, as well as a receipt for a set of Punisher grips." Pulling out the papers, he stepped over to his boss' desk and handed them over.

Stilinski sat up straighter, glancing over the papers. "Where'd you find these?" he inquired, peering up at his deputy with an arched eyebrow.

He resisted the urge to wince, preparing himself for the older man's anger to return. "Brunski's office," he admitted lowly.

"Which we had permission to search!" Stiles quickly added, throwing a hand out in front of himself in defense. "The head administrator allowed us to enter and gave us permission to check it out."

"Which is perfectly legal since Brunski doesn't own that office so no lawyer can argue over the validity of the search," Derek pointed out.

"Right. And we didn't touch anything private or mess up doctor-patient confidentiality." The Kitsune gestured with his palm up, see-sawing his head. "Or orderly-patient confidentiality in this case. Whatever, you get what I mean." He waved his hand in dismissal before shoving both in the pockets of his jeans, nodding.

"Right," Derek replied, a little thrown off by his Mate's ramble, then turned to his boss. "We also found Brunski's day-planner," he stated as he put it on the desk, opening it up to the current week and tapping a finger in the page. "He marked the dates of every murder with a star and wrote down the start of Parrish's guard duty the day he was abducted."

The sheriff nodded slowly as he took it in, flipping through the planner. "A lot of coincidental stuff," he murmured, holding out his hands palms up and shaking his head. "Doesn't quite prove anything."

"The list might," Stiles muttered, signaling to Derek with a head nod towards his dad.

The deputy understood the wordless suggestion, pulling the final piece of paper out his pocket. "This was taped under one of his drawers," he explained a he unfolded it and handed it over. "It's a list of every Supe in Beacon Hills, if not the county, with some of the names crossed off."

"Those who were already killed," Stilinski filled in, eyes glued to the paper as he scanned the names.

"Yeah," the deputy breathed out, swallowing hard before continuing. "It's not Brunski's handwriting so someone else made this, someone who knows who is a Supe when that person doesn't even know themselves." At that, he pressed a finger to Parrish's name, noting how the sheriff's eyebrows raised.

"So what kind of Supernatural being has the power to know who has Supernatural genes?"

He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck. "None that I know of."

A swear left Stilinski under his breath, eyes continuing to move about the paper as he flipped it over and read the names on the back. The blue orbs flicked up to Derek when he got to his family, scent becoming more worried, concern for his friends controlling his emotional climate.

He froze all over when he reached the end and the name that had been added.

Heart pounding wildly, his head shot up to stare at his son, jaw slack as his mouth hung open, no words coming out. The concerned scent became stronger, joined by fear, and Derek felt his wolf whimper at the memory of having experienced that same shock and worry only a couple hours before.

Stiles nodded, lips pressed into a hard line, hand scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah," he rasped out. "I'm on there, too."

Dropping the paper, Stilinski roughed his hands over his face, sighing harshly. His anger at their previous shady actions was completely gone, replaced by a fatherly concern over their well-being and safety. He looked exhausted, so tired from the stress of this case. And now with the added anxiety of this list, he was losing years off his life.

"This should be more than enough for a search warrant," Derek stated lowly, knowing it was a delicate moment, but also knowing he needed to strike while his boss was feeling favorable towards them. "Might even be enough to arrest the guy, not just bring him in for questioning."

Stilinski nodded, dropping his forearms into his desk with a sigh. "Yeah," he breathed out, glancing over the evidence he'd been handed then back up at the two young men standing in his office. "But there's nothing we can do at four in the morning. We'll have to wait for the courthouse to open in five hours."

Derek scowled at that, hating that his boss was right but hating even more that it meant more time was slipping by. And with more time came more opportunity for Brunski or Garrett or whoever else to kill another Supe, all out of some fucked up belief that they were doing the world a favor by cleansing it of so-called monsters.

The sheriff smeared a hand over his face, glancing between the two men. "Go home and sleep, guys," he ordered in a kind manner, eyes soft above dark circles. "And I mean it this time. Don't make me have Boyd trail your asses there."

Both of them nodded before exiting the sheriff's office, leaving the door open as they shuffled their way to the back exit. It hit Derek then that he hadn't mentioned the photos in Brunski's apartment, how he clearly knew Haigh, the Argents, Garrett, but he shoved aside the regret. They'd find out for themselves as soon as they obtained a search warrant and conducted a thorough legal search.

He unlocked the doors of his Toyota with the key fob, opening his door to get in, only to stop when he noticed Stiles hesitating on the other side of the SUV. His brow was drawn in worry, scent upset and nervous, bottom lip between his teeth as he frowned at the passenger side window.

"What's wrong?" he checked, concern dripping off every word, wolf whimpering over its Mate's distress.

"I just," he began then stopped, huffing as he glanced around. "Can you not drop me off at home?" he requested, voice small.

Derek arched an eyebrow at that, leaning a forearm on his still open door and placing his hand on the roof of the SUV. "Stiles, your Jeep is still at my place," he pointed out

"No. I mean." He paused and huffed again, shoving a hand through his hair. "I don't wanna leave you," he admitted softly, finally looking at the older man and meeting his gaze. His brows raised in the middle, eyes turned down at the corners, bottom lip barely sticking out in the hint of a pout. "Please?"

Derek was powerless before his pleading face and soft, begging voice and he swallowed hard against the emotions threatening to consume him. All he could think about was giving his Mate what he wanted so he'd be happy again, how it would help make himself happy because then he'd better be able to protect him and not have to worry if he was okay and safe.

With an absent nod, he breathed out an "okay", getting a shaky smile in response.

The twosome climbed into the Toyota, Derek starting up the engine and driving them to his loft. Stiles was fidgeting again, bouncing knee and thumbnail between his teeth—his left this time, since his right had been gnawed as far down as possible. Without even thinking about it, the Werewolf reached over and pulled his hand away from his mouth, twining their fingers together and resting their hands on the center console.

Stiles made himself at home immediately upon entering Derek's loft, tossing his borrowed leather jacket on the back of the couch then flopping down on it. The Werewolf headed straight for his fridge, grabbing two wolfsbane-infused beers before scuffing over to the sofa and offering a bottle to the younger man.

"Seriously?" the Kitsune questioned with a cocked eyebrow, reluctantly taking it. "Since when do you allow me to drink, rather than giving me a lecture about alcohol consumption?"

"Since you can legally drink," he stated while removing his gun, taser, and handcuffs from his utility belt and gently placing them on the coffee table along with his phone. "Besides, pretty sure we can both use it after the day we've had." He sank down onto the opposite end of the couch, slumping as he opened his beer and took a long swig.

Stiles saluted him with it before twisting off the cap and taking a big gulp, letting out a satisfied "ahh" and smiling at it. "Way better than the shit I drank back in New York. That stuff's weak."

The older man snorted, holding his bottle near his lips. "You were probably drinking beer made for humans," he pointed out before taking a sip.

His Mate pouted thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side in concession. "Probably," he admitted, fidgeting in his spot and rearranging himself so he was slightly turned towards Derek, right ankle resting on top of his left knee. "I keep forgetting I'm a Kitsune. And then I accidentally set something on fire." He smirked, playing it off as he drank, but his scent was slightly ashamed and embarrassed.

The Werewolf wasn't sure how to react, other than a thought about how he also kept forgetting the younger man was no longer human. "What's it like?"

"Setting stuff on fire?" his Mate asked back, eyebrow cocked and lips twisted to the side in confusion.

Derek rolled his eyes, reaching over and smacking the back of his arm, getting a chuckle in response. "Being a Kitsune," he clarified, slumping further down and resting his head on the back of the couch, face turned towards the younger man. "I don't know much other than they're Japanese fox spirits and there's thirteen types."

Shrugging, Stiles rested his bottle on his knee, thumb rubbing at the condensation on the neck of it as he stared at it. "I imagine it's like being a Werewolf but cooler," he said with a smirk. "We have powers, which is awesome. Like, I can manipulate fire and create it. Kira is a Thunder Kitsune, or Sanda, and she can absorb electricity and control it, which is really fucking handy in a power outage."

Derek turned more fully towards the other man, body language mirroring his. He was completely focused on Stiles as he told about the history of Kitsunes, all the hours of research he put into learning about himself, the things Noshiko taught him. He spoke of a Kitsune's tails and how each one was earned through learning a new skill, how some powers—like his fire manipulation—came naturally but others—like rapid healing and shifting—were acquired.

"I have three tails so far," he bragged, smirking proudly. "I joke that I'm earning one a year but some actually come with time." He paused to shrug and drink, leaning forward to put his now empty bottle on the coffee table. "But I've learned most of the fun stuff, like this." He held his hand out with his fingers curved up like claws, the ends of each digit lighting on fire.

Derek let out a gasp as he sat up straight, leaning more towards the other male. It was incredible, each tiny flame having appeared out of seemingly nowhere, flickering and dancing on the ends of his fingers like fiery claws.

Curious, he reached out and touched one, snapping his hand back when it burned him. "Holy shit, that's real," he murmured, eyes wide in awe, mouth hanging slack.

"Hell yeah it is," Stiles stated with joy, closing his fist and extinguishing the flames. "I can also do this." He opened his hand back up, this time creating a ball of fire floating above his palm. "I'm great at birthday parties. Papa Y doesn't agree since I keep reigniting his candles when he tries to blow 'em out but." He ended his statement with a nonchalant shrug, smirking as his eyes twinkled with mischievous delight.

The Werewolf's own eyes were glued to the ball of fire, completely mesmerized by the dancing flames, the blends of yellows and oranges, the way it lit up Stiles' face. He wished his own power would go out so he could see the light play off his pale skin, could see it sparkling in his whiskey eyes.

"What else can you do?" he murmured, still staring.

The younger man's scent like up with pride, joy, excitement, obviously glad that his powers had been accepted so well, so easily. But then the nerves came back and he fidgeted in his seat. "This one I haven't practiced as much so no judging when it looks like shit."

"I won't ever judge you," he replied honestly, making the other one gasp, mouth hanging open as the flames went out.

"Shit," the Kitsune muttered, shaking his head to snap out of it. "Okay, here goes." He shook his hands out, then his arms, cracked his neck and blew out a puff of air. His brow furrowed in concentration as he held out his hand again, palm flat this time.

Derek watched in fascination as a tiny flame emerged in the center of the younger man's palm, watched it grow taller and wider, the outline of a triangle taking shape. Stiles stuck his tongue out as he focused harder, the triangle growing until it was at least a foot tall. The top edge wavered as it became rounder, then dipped in the middle, shimmering and shaking all over the place as it took on a whole new shape.

A heart.

"Wow," Derek breathed out in awe, eyes roaming the whole thing, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"Yeah," the younger man whispered. "That's the quickest and easiest it's ever been to make that. And it's lasting longer than usual." He shrugged the shoulder that wasn't attached to the hand creating the heart-shaped flame. "Probably because you're here."

The Werewolf's eyes snapped to his face, noting how those whiskey eyes were already on him, paying zero attention to his creation. His own heart was pounding rapidly in his chest, skin tingling all over as he tried to figure out the implication behind those words, what they could mean.

He came up with nothing but a whole lotta hope and wishful thinking as he choked out a "what?", not entirely sure if he wanted a real answer.

The younger man swallowed, voice still thick with emotion when he spoke. "I still love you, too, Der," he admitted shakily. "It kills me that I hurt you and abused your trust like that. I thought I was protecting you but instead, I hurt you worse than I ever thought I could." He pressed his lips into a hard line, sniffed as his eyes grew watery. "You're not the only one who feels the Mate bond."

He had no idea where the thought came from, how or when the command was sent from his brain to the rest of his body, if his brain even wanted it to happen in the first place. But it happened and there was nothing he could really do about it.

Not that he really wanted it to stop.

Derek practically lunged at the younger man, sweeping the hand holding the fire to the side, inadvertently extinguishing the flames. He crashed their lips together in a hard kiss, smashing his own lip in his enthusiasm, hand slipping around to cup the back of his neck.

Stiles let out an "oomf" at the impact, scent turning to shock, body frozen and lips unmoving. But when Derek pulled back slightly and allowed them to actually kiss properly, he returned it, surprise and pleasure rolling off him in waves.

The twosome shifted so they were laying on the couch, the younger man underneath with his head propped on the arm of the sofa. Derek cupped his face, feeling the familiar shape of his expression, the surprise furrowing his brow, the smile curving his lips.

He pulled back to peer down at him, at his Mate, at the male he was still in love with despite everything. Stiles swallowed hard, nerves coloring his scent, uncertainty swirling in his whiskey orbs. It wasn't an expression Derek wanted to see on his face and he felt the overwhelming desire to kiss it away.

So he did.

He reconnected their lips, much more gently this time, the kiss returned instantly. Lips moved in well-practiced motions, Derek stroking his Mate's cheek with his thumb, pressing his body down onto his. The frame underneath his was familiar and new all at the same time, added muscles altering his shape.

But the scent in Derek's nose was exactly the same, all spicy citrus, that smell that was home and his and love and lust and, fuck, he just wanted to breathe it in for the rest of his life.

Arms wrapped around him, Stiles managing to work a leg out from under the larger male, hooking it around Derek's thigh. The Werewolf let his hips drop down, slowly rolling them against the other male's and making him gasp into his mouth.

Stiles pulled away, staring up at the older man with dilated pupils and half-lidded eyes. His cheeks were flushed, lips blurred and reddened, and his breathing was heavier than before. He was beautiful and he was in love with Derek, was Derek's Mate, was underneath Derek smelling of love and want and why the hell weren't they kissing again?

The Werewolf bent down and pressed their lips together, fingers gripping at the back of his shirt. He licked at the seam between his Mate's lips and was granted access, immediately slipping inside. He tasted the beer Stiles'd consumed, the mint of earlier toothpaste, the familiar flavor that was pure Stiles with no other way to describe it. It went straight to his head, making him groan, hips bucking down and pressing into a half-hard lump that wasn't there before.

"Ah, fuck, Der," Stiles gasped out, head tilting back, arousal flooding the Werewolf's nose.

Derek ran his nose up along the length of his Mate's neck, inhaling him, the scent making his head swim and his cock harden. His own arousal was a living thing, breathing fire into every inch of him and taking control of his body and actions.

His hips began grinding, slow rolls driving his hardening cock down onto his Mate's. Moans filled his ears, sparking his arousal more and driving him higher, further. His wolf was a howl in the back of his mind, growls emanating from somewhere deep within, rumbling his chest.

An answering growl came from below, making his dick stiffen up completely, hand shooting out to dig his claws in the arm of his couch rather than the male beneath him. He let out a shuddered gasp against a cotton covered collarbone, before snarling at the fabric for blocking his way to bare skin. Fangs descending, he hooked it in the collar of Stiles' tee and ripped it right down the middle.

"Oh fuck," the Kitsune groaned, hips bucking up. "That's so fucking hot."

Derek smirked, dragging the tip of it up between his pecs, along his collarbone, then the side of his throat, relishing in the shuddering gasp he earned in response. Making his teeth blunt again, he sank them into his jugular and held him in place, wolf rumbling in pleasure, his Mate groaning loudly.

"Oh God, get naked and inside me!"

Derek lifted his head then his body, reaching down and undoing the younger man's belt. Stiles followed his lead and worked on the Werewolf's belt and slacks, reaching inside and cupping him through his briefs. His hips bucked on automatic, grinding against the newly added source of friction, cock pulsing against the cotton. Precome spurted out, creating a wet patch, the Kitsune rubbing his finger in it and inadvertently playing with his slit.

"Oh my God," he gasped out, barely able to hold himself up above his ex, eyes drifting closed as the finger continued rubbing there and playing with him. His entire body trembled, the scent of his Mate's arousal and joy further spurring him on and causing him to become further turned on himself.

The finger slipped away and he opened his eyes to see Stiles slipping it in his mouth and sucking, groaning in satisfaction at the taste. Derek growled, feeling his eyes flash, and he crashed their lips together in a fierce kiss.

Somehow he managed to get the other man's jeans undone and parted, boxers shoved down enough for his cock to spring free. He pulled away from his partner's lips, ignoring the protesting whine that came from that action, spitting on his own palm before reaching down and curling his hand around the Kitsune's cock.

Stiles groaned out a few syllables he was sure were meant to be words—most likely swears—hips bucking up into the tight grip. He stared up at the older man, jaw hanging slack, eyes roaming his face before he glared at his torso.

"Too much clothes," he grumbled, setting to work on the buttons of the deputy's uniform shirt and slipping it down his shoulders. Derek sat up, straddling his waist, and helped him remove it, then tugged off the wifebeater that was underneath, tossing both aside. Leaning back down, he reconnected their lips, cupping the younger man's cheek as he kissed him passionately. His slacks and boxers were pushed down under his ass, hands cupping the globes before one slid around and wrapped around his dick. He smeared precome around it, using it as a weak lube to stroke him long and slow, grip tight the way he remembered Derek liked it.

Their lips parted when their gasping breaths became too much to handle, foreheads pressed together. The Werewolf licked his palm and reached down between their bodies, knocking the other man's hand away before wrapping both of them in his own. Matching groans escaped their lips in synchronicity, both bucking their hips. Derek stroked both of them together, whining in frustration when he couldn't get the friction he wanted, deciding on a new plan of action.

Stilling his hand, he started bucking his hips, rubbing his cock against the other man's. The head of his dick dragged against the sensitive part under the younger man's, his own bundle of nerves being massaged by the other man's balls. Stiles gasped, eyes going wide, claws pricking at Derek's bare back as the sweet scent of his pleasure intensified.

"Shit," he breathed, a whine following soon after. "Der. Gonna come."

The Werewolf growled, eyes flashing again, his own claws lengthening and staying that way. "Good," he rumbled, flashing fangs down at the other male. "Want you to come."

Stiles whined again, tips of his own fangs peeking out his parted lips, hips bucking in rhythm with his partner's. His eyes flashed orange momentarily, swearing again, claws now dragging down the other man's back.

"Come, too," he rasped out, moaning as Derek began rubbing their slits with his thumb. "Want you to come. Wanna wear your scent."

The Werewolf growled louder, precome flowing abundantly and making their dicks slide together easier. He was getting close, balls drawing up close to his body as his spine tingled, gun cocked and ready to blow.

But not before his Mate.

He nibbled on the other man's neck, playing on his biting fetish and making him pant and tremble. "C'mon, li'l foxy," he coaxed, voice rasping as he ran a fang along the shell of his ear. "Paint me with your scent."

Stiles' spine arched off the couch as he shouted out a swear then Derek's name, eyes wide open and glowing orange, claws digging into bare skin. His come spurted out in thick ropes, hitting both their torsos as he cried out.

Derek kept stroking until Stiles whimpered from oversensitivity, moving his hand as he sat up and straddled his Mate's waist again. He smeared a hand through the Kitsune's come on his lean chest, using it to lube his actions as he jerked himself off.

Stiles groaned, eyes half-lidded, a dull orange ring around blown pupils. He reached up and began smearing his come on the Werewolf's chest, rubbing it into his skin as he licked his lips.

"Fuckin' hell that's hot," Stiles commented on a whisper, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "Come on. Come all over me. My Mate."

Derek did exactly as he was told.

With a roar, he spilled himself all over the younger man, their seeds mixing together as he covered him with his scent, letting all who came near know that Stiles was his.

A satisfied growl rumbled up from his chest at the sight, hand reaching down to swirl it all together, bringing some to his mouth to taste. Their combined flavors made him groan, glowing gold eyes rolling to the back of his head, grin forming on his face.

He stared down at the male beneath him, loving the display he created. His heaving chest was covered in their smeared come. His usually pale skin was flushed from exertion and pleasure, whisker burn having turned the side of his neck an angry red. The bite marks were already healing, something that irked his wolf, but it was worth it to see the hint of fangs between parted lips and feel the prick of claws on his bare hips.

Fucking eh. Derek wasn't sure if it was due to that whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" bullshit or what, but Stiles looked better than ever and he honestly had no clue exactly how much he'd missed the sight of his debauched and satisfied Mate until that moment.

"I love you," he spoke lowly, reverently, leaning down and pressing their bodies close together, tucking his head into the crook of his partner's neck and inhaling his scent. "I love you."

"Love you, too, Bae Wolf."

Derek's head popped up at that, scowling down at his smirking Mate. "No," he replied flatly.

"What?" the Kitsune asked innocently, still smirking, tips of his fingers—claws now retracted—lazily trailing up and down his spine.

"No 'bae'. Ever."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue but Derek's phone ringing on the coffee table cut him off. The deputy froze, eyes widening as he recognized the ringtone, immediately sitting up.

"Nooo," Stiles whined, reaching up to try and grab hold of the other man's shoulder, hands slipping on sweat-dampened bare skin. "Don't kill the afterglow."

"It's your dad," he stated flatly, leaning over to snatch up his cell.

"Afterglow killed."

The older man nodded once, sliding to answer. "Hale."

"Get your ass down to Beacon Memorial," Stilinski barked down the line, but with a lot less venom than earlier. "We got two new vics, both still alive."

Reality came crashing in at that moment, making his eyes go wide. He was vaguely aware of replying with a "yes, sir" and hanging up, smearing his hand over his face. Christ, he'd been fooling around with his ex, getting off like a selfish asshole while a group of killers were out free and attacking someone else.

Someones, actually.

He felt vaguely nauseous, felt like an asshole, felt like a failure and a disappointment and a complete fuck up. He was supposed to be protecting the people of Beacon County, not participating in carnal activities and smearing his come all over someone.

Total fuck up.

He stumbled onto his feet, hand shoved in his hair, gazing around the room and taking in the state of things. His equipment was on the coffee table, uniform shirt hanging off the edge of it, slacks still hanging open as they barely clung to his thighs. He was surrounded by symbols of his job and he still managed not to do it, all because he was weak and gave in to someone else.

No more.

He quickly strode through to the bathroom, quickly wiping himself off and tucking himself back into his pants. Shitty cleanup job, but he was failing at his actual occupation, too, so it made sense.

Heading back into the living room, he found Stiles standing there buttoning his flannel up, remnants of his torn tee beside him on the couch. His head was ducked down, shoulders slumped, scent upset and defeated.

Derek scuffed his way over to the coffee table, slipping his wifebeater over his head and his arms through the sleeves of his uniform shirt. "Can I call you later?"

A small smile curved up the corner of his lips, scent turning happier and sweeter again. "Yeah," he replied, lifting his head and smirking. "I programmed my new number in your phone already."

Derek snorted, ruffing the other man's hair and getting a chuckle in response. A small smile of his own formed in his face and he leaned over, kissing his Mate. "Drive safe and text me when you get home."

Stiles saluted then gave the older man another quick peck on the lips, sashaying his way out the loft.

His Mate being happy was one less problem he had to deal with, even though it didn't ease his guilt over slacking off with killers in the loose. But maybe these new still alive victims would be able to help him solve that problem, too.

Parrish was waiting in the ER for him, smirk forming on his face as Derek grew closer. "Okay, you are officially no longer allowed to comment on the smell of my apartment," he stated with a chuckle, waving a hand in front of his nose as if ridding himself of a bad scent.

"Fuck you, Parrish," he grumbled in return, self-consciously checking his clothing for stains. Bit late to do anything about it though.

Luckily he was fine.

His partner chuckled more, shoving playfully at the other male. "Thought getting laid was supposed to make people lighten up."

The Werewolf snorted, glancing around and feeling glad that everyone was too busy to hear their convo. "Yeah, well, kinda hard to be happy and lighthearted with a bunch of serial killers on the loose, brandishing a list containing the names of your family, friends, and Mate."

Parrish sobered at that, scent shifting to something distressed. "Sheriff told me about that list, about how Lydia and I were on it, too. Makes me wonder how the hell they knew about me."

"Only one way to find out," Derek stated, folding his arms over his chest. "So what do we have?"

The Kitsune flipped open his notepad, reading the top page. "Aidan and Ethan Wolfe, twin brothers, both Werewolves."

"Shocker," he deadpanned. Werewolves with the surname "Wolfe". Quite a stretch.

His partner made an agreeing humming noise before continuing. "Aidan was admitted with a bruised larynx after being choked with a blunt object and is still unconscious. Ethan is currently in surgery being treated for multiple stab wounds and defensive gashes. His boyfriend is in the waiting room, name's Danny—" He paused, frowning at his note. "Mah-hee-ay-lay-nigh." He stuck his bottom lip out, clearly not sure if he was right, then shrugging as if to say "close enough".

Derek frowned himself before leaning over and peering at the other deputy's notepad. "May-hee-ah-lah-nee," he corrected, recognizing the name immediately.

Parrish lifted his head and met his eyes. "You know the guy?"

"Used to," he admitted, stepping back and scratching at his jaw. "Friend of a friend."

Parrish nodded once then placed a hand on his shoulder, flipping his notepad closed and smirking. "Then you get to interview him." He clapped his shoulder twice before dropping his arm and walking off.

The Werewolf sighed, punching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. Really, talking to Danny shouldn't be that big a deal now that Stiles was back in his life and they were...

They were what exactly?

Right. Not the time for an internal debate regarding his own relationship status. He had someone to talk to, someone he was familiar with, someone who was currently upset over his boyfriend being in surgery. Getting his mental shit together, Derek headed down the hall, soon finding the waiting room he needed and the human he wanted to talk to.

Danny was on the edge of one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, fingers steepled in front of his face. He was dressed in gray sweats and black fleece pullover, blood and dirt splattered on his clothing, on his face. There was a slight tremble to his body, but it might've just been where his feet were tapping out an unknown rhythm as a way to get rid of nervous energy. God knew Derek had seen enough of that coming from Stiles.

Knocking on the doorframe, he stepped into the room, noting the surprise flooding Danny's scent and the look of realization dawning on tan features.

"Derek?" he double-checked. "Hey, man."

"Hey," he returned the greeting with a head bob, sinking down onto the seat on Danny's left. "I'd ask how you are but." He cut himself off and shrugged, figuring there was no need to finish that statement, especially with the snort he received in response.

"Yeah," he sighed out, staring straight ahead at sterile white walls and gray chairs. "Kinda obvious how shitty I'm feeling, considering my Mate is currently in surgery after being stabbed."

The deputy's eyebrows raised in surprise before he schooled his features. "I didn't know you were Mated," he commented, thinking back to Parrish's statement over Ethan's boyfriend. Actually being Mated was the human equivalent of being married, meaning the term "husband" would've been more accurate. He was pretty sure he'd made that distinction clear to the Kitsune, but maybe he was wrong or things were blurred when he brought up Stiles...

"I'm not," Danny clarified, bringing him back to the moment. "My family won't let me get Mated or married or anything like that until after I graduate MIT. But I know Ethan is it for me, so we use the term." He shrugged, smoothing down the hair at the back of his head. "Feels more accurate and fitting than 'boyfriend', ya know?" He turned his head to the other male, brow raised in question.

"Yeah, I get it," Derek replied honestly, having firsthand experience with that very thing. Even when he and Stiles were apart, it still felt wrong to think of him as anything but his Mate. The word just fit, was the most accurate way to convey his feelings for the guy and how much he truly meant to Derek.

He shoved all those thoughts aside though, focusing once again on his job. Sliding his notepad out his belt, he flipped to a clean page, jotting down the time and date, Danny's name, making sure his notes stayed accurate and unjumbled. "Wanna tell me what happened?"

Danny puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out, head hanging again. "My family wanted to meet Ethan's—which is pretty much only Aidan really—so we came here for the holidays. But there are a lot of people in my house and it got to be too much for them, so we decided to go for a run in the Preserve."

Derek cocked an eyebrow at that. "At this hour?"

The human shrugged, sheepish smile on his face, deepening his dimples. "We'd actually been out all night," he admitted. "The three of us were all hanging together drinking, but then Aidan said he had to take a leak so he wandered off."

The deputy nodded as he scribbled it all down, the distracting sounds and scents of the hospital all disappearing as he focused.

"Ethan heard a strangling noise and took off running and I followed." He paused to swallow hard, scent turning salty from upset, heartbeat picking up speed from remembered anxiety. His brow furrowed as he focused on the memory, fingers tangled together between his knees. "By the time I got there, Aidan and Ethan were both on the ground unconscious with this blond kid standing over them wielding a lacrosse stick. I yelled that I was gonna call the cops and he took off running."

Derek felt his own heart speed up at the description of the attacker, the vague details sounding familiar enough for him to know exactly who Danny was talking about.

"Think you could identify him if you saw him again?" he asked, hating how hopeful he sounded.

At the human's nod, he slipped his phone out his pocket, pulling up Garrett's Facebook profile picture that Stiles had saved on his device. He held it up so the other man could see it, noting how his dark eyes lit up with recognition and he sat up straighter, leaning away from the image.

"Yeah," Danny breathed out, swiping his sleeve under his nose. "That's the kid I saw getting ready to stab Ethan again."

Phone back in his pocket, Derek hid his smirk as he jotted down Danny's positive ID. There was no way Stilinski wasn't letting them haul in Garrett Smith now. And with three of the killers positively identified with more than just circumstantial evidence and a gut feeling, they were one step closer to taking down the entire group and making Beacon Hills safe once again.

"We got really fucking lucky with this one."

It wasn't often that the sheriff actually swore—especially while in uniform—so to hear the f-bomb being so casually dropped, it further solidified the meaning behind the words.

Both Derek and Parrish went wide eyed as they stood in an empty waiting room, updating each other on the latest vics. Aidan was healing rapidly—as the case usually was with sleeping Werewolves—but his injuries had been documented, photos taken of the bruise across his neck where he'd been strangled with a long, blunt object. Nurse McCall had been the one to inform the sheriff of that fact, agreeing when he asked if it was possible that the mark was caused by a lacrosse stick.

Ethan was also healing up well, now out of surgery and in a recovery room with his twin and Mate. The wounds he'd suffered from were deep and ragged, inflicted during an obvious struggle and leading to massive blood loss. Nurse McCall said he was close to being brought in in a body bag rather than on a stretcher.

The sheriff's profane comment had been delivered after the human female had departed, needing to check on other patients. His two deputies exchanged twin looks of surprise before focusing on him as he ticked off items on his fingers. "Live victims who can tell us what happened, an eyewitness with a positive ID, and DNA of the attacker found in blood under both vics' claws." A relieved smile formed on his face as he refolded his arms, eyes seeming brighter despite the darker circles under them. "We might be getting close to solving this case."

Parrish grinned, Derek's smile not quite as big or bright. He tried to remember when exactly he'd slept last, fairly certain he'd been up for over twenty-four hours at that point. Ironic since he'd been hoping to sleep right through Christmas Day.

Where was a coffee machine when it was needed?

"So what's next, sir?" Parrish questioned, both deputies locking eyes on their superior.

"We've got a rush on the DNA, so no arrest yet," he informed them, rubbing at his jaw, the action creating a rasping noise from the missed day or two of shaving. "But we've got enough to bring Smith in for questioning."

"And his mom," Derek tacked on. "He's under eighteen, needs a legal guardian to be present."

Stilinski nodded with a smirk. "Which is the perfect excuse to bring in Kate Argent and see what she knows."

The Werewolf grinned, liking his boss' train of thought.

"In the meantime, Parrish, I want you to get an array made with Smith's photo in it, make Mah-hee—May-hee—Danny's ID more official," he ordered before turning to his other deputy. "When's the last time you got a good night's sleep, Hale?"

"About three years ago," he answered honestly, statement backed up by a jaw-cracking yawn.

"All the more reason to head home and get some shut eye. More shut eye," he corrected himself with a bob of the head, face contorting into a grimace. "And I'm sorry for dragging you here, but I figured you'd wanna know about this firsthand. Didn't mean to interrupt your sleep."

Parrish snickered on Derek's right and he snapped his head over, flashing gold eyes and baring a fang in warning. Definitely not the appropriate time or place to make wisecracks regarding the Werewolf's sex life, especially not when the third person in their convo was well-aware that he was the father of the one person Derek wanted to have any sort of a sex life with.

Who just happened to also be his boss.

Stilinski narrowed his eyes, lips parting as he frowned in confusion, holding his hands out in front of himself. "I don't even wanna know," he decided. "Just. Go."

Parrish continued to smirk as they both headed towards the exit, Derek scowling and hating the amused scent his partner was giving off.

"Keep it up and I'll tell Lydia all about your cross-dressing habit," he warned as they neared his Toyota and he unlocked it with his key fob.

The Kitsune paused by the rear of the SUV, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "But I don't have one," he argued, watching as the other man headed to the driver's side door.

"True," he admitted, opening it up. "But Lydia doesn't know that." He grinned wickedly at his friend as he climbed inside his car, laughing at the middle finger he received.

Chapter Text

Derek ended up heading to the station, partially because there was no point in him heading home when his shift started in two hours anyway, partially because he wasn't entirely sure if he even wanted to go to his loft. The place probably reeked of Stiles and sex and while ordinarily that would light him up with joy, he was worried he'd spend time meant for sleeping being wide awake, trying to figure out what exactly they were to each other at that point and trying to get himself off again to just the scent of his Mate on his couch.

Wouldn't be the first time he'd done such a thing.

After securing his weapons in his locker, he headed to a room affectionately dubbed "the Crypt" by everyone at the station, named so due to the fact that the bunk beds littering the space were as hard and as tiny as coffins and that everyone who napped in there slept like the dead—mainly because, like Derek, they were all going on days without sleep.

He found the space empty, heading to a set in the back corner and flopping onto the bottom one. Knowing he needed to set an alarm, he slipped his phone out his pocket, noting that he'd missed a text from Stiles saying he'd made it home safely and to let him know what happened. Derek sent him a message informing him of his past couple hours at the hospital and what the sheriff's department's next move was, before ending it with a mention of his own plans to take a nap.

He got a response almost immediately, the short message making him smile.

'sweet dreams sleepy wolf <3'

Derek completely passed out, his alarm jarring him awake. He sat up disoriented, taking a few minutes to rub his eyes and figure out where he was. Work. The Crypt. No point heading home due to shift starting soon.

It took him another long moment to realize his Separation Sickness was no longer there, that bone-deep ache he'd suffered since the day Stiles left for New York now gone. Granted he still felt a strange twisting in his gut that he experienced when he woke up on Christmas Day three years ago, but he chalked it up to waking up alone and Mate-less.

He showered in the locker room, reluctant to wash away his Mate's scent but thinking of ways to put it back on him, to put his own on Stiles. Dressed in the emergency uniform he kept in his locker room, he grabbed a coffee and a couple large donuts—cliché as hell, yet still delicious as hell—from the break room and headed to the bullpen, trying desperately to wake up and stay that way.

The place was near deserted again, giving him pause and making him wonder what the hell he missed.

Parrish was behind his desk though, watching Derek with an arched eyebrow, confusion clouding his scent. "Did you sleep here?" he asked dubiously before smirking. "Trouble in paradise already?"

"I will eat your tails for breakfast," he grumbled, Stiles' voice in his head commenting that he was being a "Super Grouchy Not-A-Morning Wolf." He ignored it, gulping half his coffee and internally wincing at the burn, then perched on the edge of the desk to Parrish's right. "What'd I miss?" he questioned before tearing off a large piece of a donut with his teeth and chewing.

Parrish spun his chair to face him, leaning back and folding his arms casually over his midsection. "Haigh finally got an attorney so the sheriff's in there questioning him." He gestured behind himself with his head before continuing. "The APB for Brunski's car finally got a hit so Boyd and Lahey are off to check it out, and ADA Whittemore is working on a search warrant for Brunski's apartment and Garrett's house."

The Werewolf polished off a donut, licking icing off the corner of his lips. "And no one thought to invite me to the party?"

"I think they were afraid you'd eat all the donuts," his friend quipped, staring pointedly at the second one in his hand then the third resting on a napkin beside him.

Derek just stared before shoving as much of it in his mouth as possible, wondering when in the hell he'd picked up his Mate's eating habits.

Parrish rolled his eyes and sighed in a very Lydia-like fashion and the Werewolf internally grinned at the fact that he wasn't the only one suffering from mimicry. His phone rang in his pocket and he swallowed hard before slipping it out, huge grin forming on his face at the name displayed.

'<3 Stiles! :D'

"Don't even need to bother asking who's calling," Parrish commented with a smirk, Derek kicking his foot as he stood in retaliation.

"You have no room to talk," he replied, gathering his now empty coffee mug as he headed off somewhere more private. "And don't touch my donut, asshole."

"You need to learn to share, Hale!" his friend called after him, getting a middle finger back.

The Crypt was still empty when Derek slipped back inside it, answering the call mere seconds before it was sent to voicemail.

"Hey, Stiles," he greeted, smile audible in his voice.

"Hmm, not Stiles, but I do appreciate the cheery greeting."

Derek dropped the mug at the sound of the familiar raspy voice and saccharine sweet tone. A shudder raced throughout him, wolf whimpering, anxiety so strong even he could scent it. Not good. So not fucking good.

Then again, nothing involving Kate Argent could ever be good.

Except for maybe her funeral.

Kate Argent calling him from his Mate's phone while she was suspected in taking part in multiple homicides—again—was the worst thing ever.

His fingers clenched into fists as he rested his forearm on a top bunk, eyes narrowing as he glared at the imagined picture of her, gums and fingertips tingling from his fangs wanting to drop and his claws wanting to extend.

"Kate," he snarled, not bothering to hide his disgust.

She tutted down the line and he could perfectly imagine the head shake she'd be giving him, the pursed lips as she scolded him like a naughty puppy. Because Werewolves were nothing but untrained dogs to her, solely there to be used and abused.

If not just flat out killed.

"I think I liked your tone better when you thought I was Stiles. You were much nicer then, not nearly so feral."

His wolf snarled loudly in his head, hating the sound of its Mate's name rolling off her poisonous tongue. The human felt the same way, was overcome with the need to bash her skull in for just thinking it. "Where is he?" he ground out through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, wanting so badly to sink his now unsheathed claws into something.

Preferably her flesh.

"Oh, he's perfectly safe," she assured him before letting out a wicked giggle. "For now at least. How long he stays that way completely depends on you."

Turning around, Derek sank onto the bottom bunk, hand covering his eyes. His anxiety was a tight ball inside his chest, a fist clutching his lungs too tight and making it hard to breathe. His stomach knotted and churned and knotted again, nausea washing over him on waves. His heart pounding so hard, so loud he thought for sure the rest of the building could hear it, Supe or not.

Because Kate Argent had his Mate, the one person who made his life worth living. It was hard enough getting though his day to day business with the guy just being simply MIA. If he were completely gone on a permanent basis, there was no way Derek could continue on, not without several attempts to join him in death.

But could he really do that to his mom, to his dad, to his sisters, to Stilinski and Parrish and Lydia, to everyone else in his life that he loved and they loved him?

No. He wasn't gonna let that happen. No one was mourning anyone, no one was losing a loved one. He was gonna get Stiles back, no matter the cost.

Even if the price was his own life.

"What do you want?" he whispered, defeated, hating that he had to give in to a psychopathic bitch's demands in order to keep everyone safe, that he had to let a killer run loose so he could get Stiles back and in one piece and alive. But to him, there wasn't a choice. Between Stiles and anything else, he was always choosing Stiles.

"I want every shred of evidence you have against my son," she demanded in a hard voice, jaw set. "Every copy, every back-up, every back-up to the back-up, every random slip of paper and every photo and DVD, all of it. Bring it to me in one hour or I'll not only kill your precious Stiles, I'll go after your family, everyone at the sheriff's station, everyone you interact with on a daily basis. They'll all die. Understood?"

Derek swallowed hard, fear making his heart pound in his throat. "Understood," he gasped out thickly, feeling his eyes grow watery with unshed tears, hating how weak he felt.

"One hour, Derek. The old Argent Arms building. And come alone or else I'll send out word to finish that list off tonight." Point made, she hung up, leaving him to sit in a daze, alone in the crypt.

Fuck.

He dropped his phone onto the flimsy mattress beside himself, hands rubbing over his head repeatedly. God, it was no longer a matter of just saving Stiles; he was saving everyone else, too. Because there was no doubt in his mind that Kate meant what she'd said, that she wasn't bluffing. If rumors were true, she'd killed before and more than likely would kill again.

But giving her what she wanted wouldn't stop the list from being completed; it would just delay it. She'd still have her minions take them all out one-by-one until every name was scratched out and Beacon County was Supe-free. And she'd get away with it this time, with nothing to indicate the involvement of herself or her adopted homicidal child.

Glancing about the Crypt, he imagined each bunk holding the dead body of someone he care about: his parents, his sisters, his cousin Malia, Lydia, Parrish, Scott, Argent, Allison, Stilinski, Stiles. He couldn't let anything happen to them, not when he could do something about it.

"I overheard that convo," Parrish commented from the door, causing Derek's head to snap up to him. He'd had no idea the other man had been there, how long he'd been there, why he was there in the first place. "And before you ask," he began from his spot in the threshold, leaning against the doorframe with his arms and ankles crossed. "Your heart was pounding all crazy and it was freaking me out. I wanted to come make sure everything was okay. Which it apparently isn't."

Derek licked his lips as he ducked his head, fingers steepled together between his spread knees. "I have to do it, Parrish," he stated in a hard voice. "I don't have a choice."

"Bullshit," his partner spat out, making his head snap back up to him. "You just aren't thinking clearly enough to see it."

"Then please by all means, help me out," he snarled back, rising to his feet. "Because I have an hour before someone kills my Mate and then my family, my friends, and a good majority of this fucking town!"

The other deputy pushed away from the doorframe, eyes narrowed, jaw set. "I'm a trickster, Hale," he pointed out, voice calm and firm, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Let me help."

The Werewolf considered it for half a moment before shaking his head. The risk was too great, Parrish not being all that practiced with his powers, not to mention he was too much of a Boy Scout to really trick anyone. Chances were they'd both be caught and everyone would be killed anyway, all because Derek made a stupid mistake.

"No," he rejected his friend's offer, shaking his head. "I'm not risking my life and yours."

"Aren't you already?" Parrish questioned softly. "Besides, if the situation were reversed, wouldn't you do the same if Lydia was the one who'd been taken?"

He ground his jaw, hating that his partner had a point—and was also wasting his time. "That's different," he argued. "Lydia's my best friend."

Parrish opened his mouth to debate more, but Derek held a hand up to stop him.

"If you really wanna help, don't let Stilinski find out and cover for me. Tell him I had a family emergency." Not exactly a lie since Stiles was practically family and this was most definitely an emergency. "And if the situation were reversed, you'd ask the same of me."

Anger turned his partner's scent hot and spicy, his green eyes narrowing in a glare. "If the situation were reversed, I'd trust you enough to actually come with me and help," he spat back.

"I do trust you," he insisted, hating the offended and hurt notes hiding beneath his friend's rage. "It's Kate I don't trust."

The other deputy managed to stay pissed for another ten seconds before slumping in defeat. "Fine," he breathed out, rubbing the back of his neck before gesturing to him. "But if I don't hear from you in two hours, I'm breaking my promise and telling Stilinski."

Derek offered his hand for them to shake on it, saying it was a deal. In two hours, he'd either have Stiles back safe and sound, or they'd both be dead. One could never be sure when Kate Argent was involved.

The Argent Arms building was an abandoned warehouse/office building located in a section of south Beacon Hills that was supposed to be the town's new business hub, allowing the city itself and its commerce to grow. Argent Arms was gonna be the centerpiece of that plan, a company that sold firearms of various description and caliber, as well as ammo, gun parts, and gun accessories. From what Derek understood, Chris had bought the place to expand the business he co-owned with his father Gerard, back when he still believed his family was legit and only going after Supes who'd broken the Treaty.

After his late wife's attack and his father opened his eyes to the truth about their family and their Hunting, Chris turned his back on them, closing the Argent Arms doors before they opened and joining the SRB. Gerard never bothered trying to finish the job, mainly because the fire Kate supposedly had set happened, and the building remained half-refurbished and desolate. Any plans to build around it were scrapped, other companies taking their business elsewhere, and the town's hope of expansion died.

Which, while sad for Beacon Hills, came in handy for Kate Argent and her devious plans.

Derek parked haphazardly in a lot that was more grass than tar, killing the engine before sliding out the SUV. A box that once held copy paper sat in his backseat, filled with an empty flashdrive, blank CDs, and copies of phone records and photos. Evidence on Garrett, yes, but not all of it or all their copies. He wasn't dumb enough to hand all of it over. His hope was to placate them with this crap long enough for the sheriff’s department—and the SRB, he reluctantly admitted to himself—to build a truly solid case and arrest them, allowing him to get Stiles out and to safety.

Probably a long shot, but it was all he had at that moment.

Box in hand, he headed to the side door, straining his hearing to make sure no one was hiding behind it and preparing to jump him as soon as he entered.

Silence.

Moving with caution, he slipped inside the building, entering a long dark corridor with open doorways on either side. He quietly shut the one he'd just came through, cutting off the only light source.

Thank God for Werewolf powers.

His wolf eyes automatically kicked in, allowing him to see clearly, taking in his surroundings. The drywall was unfinished, sheets screwed onto the frame but not covered. Rectangular arches stood where door frames should've been, revealing the wooden skeleton of the walls. Exposed wires hung from holes in the ceiling, no light fixtures put in, empty squares on the wall where switches would've eventually lived.

Three faint heartbeats sounded from somewhere down the hall, three scent trails leading off in that direction, so he followed it, noticing light spilling from one of the open rooms. As he crept closer, he noticed that the room in question actually had a door, the only one in the entire space, and he felt his wolf's hackles rise and his heart start pounding.

"Might as well just come on in, Derek," Kate gloated from within the lit room. "We already know you're there."

The Werewolf gave up any pretense of sneaking, walking casually the few remaining feet yet still remaining vigilant. One heartbeat was slow and steady—more than likely Kate's—one rapid and out of control—Garrett—and the last pounding loud and making his wolf whine—Stiles. He scented her smugness and cruelty, her disgust and victory, her son's anger and excitement and nerves, his Mate's fear and panic and confusion. The combination made his stomach roll and he barely withheld the urge to turn to the side and vomit all over the dusty floor, instead slipping inside the room.

The first thing he noticed was the metal table dead center, oddly out of place in a room that wasn't even finished being built, caged lights on stands in each corner of the room, lantern on the table. Kate stood behind it in black skinny jeans, skintight white tank, and leather jacket, arms folded and hip cocked. Her brown eyes were shining in devious delight, lips twisted to the side in a wicked smirk, sharp chin tilted up in cockiness and victory.

He scanned the rest of the room, finding Garrett standing off to the side in jeans and leather jacket of his own, preppy polo shirt completely out of place underneath it. His lacrosse stick was held in both his hands—one of which was wrapped up in bandages—smug smirk of his own on his face—along with two bruised eyes, a busted nose, and fresh scratches down his left cheek—blond hair side-swept like a fifties rich kid. He was like a mini-Jackson Whittemore, only worse due to his bigotry and the fact that he'd killed people solely for being Supes.

An empty wooden chair was on the left side of the room, rickety and old and easy to bust. But it was the chair on the right side of the space that held Derek's attention, that had his heart stopping and his lungs freezing and his skin grow tight all over.

Stiles was tied up, hands behind his back, bandana tied around his mouth as a gag. Dried blood was on the side of his face, from near his left temple and dripping down past his ear. His bottom lip was split open, yellowing bruise on his jaw, eye partially swollen where a shiner was halfway healed. Blood was splattered on his white tee, dirt all over his Star Wars pajama pants, signs he'd been dragged there soon after waking up.

Derek was going to kill them.

With narrowed eyes, he clomped over to the table, dropping the box on top beside a length of rope. "This is it," he stated flatly, voice hard, jaw taut. "All the evidence we have on Garrett. Now let Stiles go."

Kate slid the box closer, lifting the lid to peek inside. Her lips shifted into a thoughtful pout before she closed it again, looking back up at him. "Seems that way," she replied in her husky voice, lips twisting to the side in her wicked smirk once more. "But I'm afraid Stiles won't be leaving here." Her scent shifted to something even more devious and evil as she reached behind herself and pull out something from behind her back.

He moved quickly, gun slipped free of his holster and aimed at her, right as she leveled her own at him. Her head tilted to the side, eyebrow quirked, impressed with his speed and preparedness.

"See, I knew you wouldn't come without a gun of your own," she stated, still smirking. "And even if you weren't armed, you still have those claws. Which is why I also taught my son to shoot."

Stiles let out a muffled scream, one that seemed as though it was supposed to be Derek's name. But the Werewolf never got the chance to check on him, something sharp hitting his neck and a heaviness taking over his limbs.

"Wha' da—"

He hit the ground unconscious before he could finish the thought.

Derek woke up tied to a chair.

Not exactly how he expected his day to go but it wasn't like he had a choice.

Then again, he reconsidered as he tested the ropes holding him to the back of the rickety chair and those tying his arms and legs to parts of the same name, maybe he did have a choice.

His vision was blurry when he opened his eyes, taking a few seconds to adjust. Stiles was still tied up several feet in front of him, tears streaked down his face, cheeks blotchy and eyes red from crying. Derek pulled at his bonds trying to get free, trying to get to his Mate.

Only to stop when a knife slid along his throat.

"Oh good, you're awake," Kate commented, sashaying her way over with swaying hips. She stepped behind Stiles, placing her hands on his shoulders and making him flinch.

Derek snarled, fangs descended, trying to break out of his ropes again, only to have that knife press against him more, breaking the skin. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Garrett smirking, holding the end of his lacrosse stick to the Werewolf's throat.

"Isn't it wonderful how Stiles came back to Beacon Hills?" she questioned in that saccharine voice that made his wolf's hackles rise. "Altered our plan, sure, but I feel like this might be better." She shrugged, stepping to the side of her captive, hand sliding along his shoulders. "Shame we have to do this so soon. I was hoping we could take a few more of you monsters out, but with Daddy Dearest so hot on our trails and two of my minions in your custody—or at least about to be—it makes it a little hard." She sighed, hands on her hips. "Oh well. This will be so much better. Less work and mess for us."

Derek felt his heart freeze once again, chest going tight from fear rather than his restraints. "What will be better?" he choked out, almost afraid to hear the answer but too curious not to know.

"See, the original plan was to take all of you out one by one," she stated, ignoring his question. The stiletto heels of her boots clicked as she moved away from Stiles, fingers steepled in front of herself. "But that was taking too long. Turns out there's a lot more of you freaks than we thought." She shrugged, slowly pacing back and forth in front of the younger man as she continued her monologue.

"Haigh was supposed to throw you all off our trail, be our inside man and direct you elsewhere, but he let some personal vendetta against Parrish get in the way and he screwed up." She shook her head in disappointment, staring at the dirty ground as she kicked her feet with each step.

He took the opportunity to glance over at Stiles, trying to make sure his Mate was okay. The younger man met his gaze and gave him a wink, scent still nervous and body still tense, yet his attitude almost easygoing.

But Kitsunes were tricksters and there was a chance he was attempting to fool someone—although Derek wasn't sure who his target was. He hoped to God Stiles was trying to make Kate and Garrett believe he was terrified when in reality, he had a plan to get out.

"Brunski? He was the muscle," Kate continued, unaware of her captives' exchange. "He helped clean up the mess when that cannibal brat escaped."

The scent of shame rolled off Garrett, his shoulders slumping at the mention of his mistake.

"And he kept an eye on our Banshee freak so she could confirm the deaths for us."

Well, that was new information. Also very disconcerting information.

He thought of Brunski's job at Eichen House and wondered if she was a patient there, if she was being held there against her will so he could use her skills for his sick reasons. He hated the guy even more, something he previously didn't think was even possible.

"But with that jackass now in your sights, we have to reconfigure our plan," she went on, moving behind Stiles and putting her hands on his shoulders again. "Which is why it's so great that the sheriff's son showed back up to play a very important role," she said with a smirk, leaning down and pressing her lips close to his cheek. "You, Doe Eyes, are gonna be what turns the sheriff and this town against these Supernatural monsters."

The Kitsune's eyes went wide and Derek had the sinking feeling he wasn't faking it that time.

"Everyone knows that Werewolves are animals on two legs," she stated as she straightened back up, sashaying over to the table at a slow, deliberate pace. "As much as they pretend to have their humanity, deep down inside, they're vicious killers who want nothing more than to rip apart human flesh." Back behind the table, she snatched up a duffel bag from below and set it on top. "People overlook attacks like the one on Whittemore, on McCall, on Martin, claim it was a freak accident and that not all Weres are like that." She rolled her eyes, unzipping her bag and reaching inside. "Well, we're gonna show everyone a Werewolf's true nature."

That wicked smirk returned to her face, scent evil and manipulative, and Derek felt a shudder race throughout his entire body. A lump of fear clogged up his throat, choking him as he caught sight of what she pulled out her duffel.

A syringe full of yellow liquid.

He swallowed hard, eyes going wide, Stiles' terror a thick scent in his nose. "What," he croaked out. "What is that?"

Kate looked at the syringe with a thoughtful pout. "This?" she pointed to it then rounded the table. "This is a new form of wolfsbane we discovered. Powerful stuff, fast-acting, leaving no trace in your blood once it wears off, making it practically undetectable. What it does, however, that's what makes it so great."

She grinned as she made her way over to him. "It brings out a Werewolf's true nature, makes him feral and out of control, turning them into the murderous beast they are inside." She paused a foot or so away, glancing back at the younger man. "Stiles here is gonna be a little snack for your monstrous self," she stated, turning back to Derek. "You're gonna rip him apart and once the sheriff sees what you did to his son, completely unprovoked, he's gonna find out what you and your kind truly are. So when we try to pass restrictions against Supes and try to take you out the old fashioned way, he'll back us up, so devastated by the loss of his one remaining family member."

Derek felt sick to his stomach, jaw taut as he ground his teeth. His hands clenched into fists, claws digging into his palms and causing blood to pump out.

Pain kept you human.

"Didn't seem to work that way for your brother," he pointed out, remembering how his wife's death at the hands of a Werewolf ended up inspiring him to switch sides and actually help protect Supes rather than harm them.

Kate scoffed and rolled her eyes. "My brother is a moron who lost his way by getting distracted by his grief and some furry pussy. Who knew, deep down inside, Chris had a bestiality kink?"

His eyes narrowed at the demeaning way she spoke of his sister, but he dug his claws further into his palms, centering himself. Getting pissed wasn't gonna help. He needed to remain calm and clear headed in order to think things through and get Stiles and himself out of that fucked up situation.

Alive.

And in one piece.

He pulled at his restraints, trying to break free so he could rip into his captors, only to get tutted at, knife pressing further into his throat. He felt the sting as it sank deeper into his skin, blood welling up and dripping out onto the metal.

"Not yet," she argued, stepping closer and crouching before him. "We'll let you break free in a minute." A smirk formed on her face while she winked, reaching forward and stabbing the syringe into his thigh.

Derek snarled, eyes going bright gold, fangs sliding down as he snapped at her, trying to tear into her with his teeth. The knife slipped away from him as Garrett jumped back, but Kate remained steady, calm, unmoving.

"See, sweetie?" she questioned, glancing up at her adoptive son. "Animals. Each and every one of them." At that, she depressed the plunger, injecting the wolfsbane into his system.

The Werewolf roared, legs trying in vain to kick, feeling the rope around his right ankle start to pull apart. Kate finally showed a sign of nervousness, her scent carrying a slight hint of worry. Moving quickly, she withdrew the syringe and rose up to her feet, striding over to the table.

"Time to go, Garrett," she ordered, dropping the syringe into the duffel and pulling her handgun out from the back of her jeans and aiming it at the Werewolf.

"Wolfsbane bullets," she informed him, Garrett coming up behind her and grabbing the box of fake evidence. "The stuff I injected you with will wear off. These—” she wiggled the gun, slipping the straps of her duffel over her shoulder. "—will kill you. So don't even think of coming after us."

The Werewolf narrowed his eyes at her. "You really think I'd care if you put a bullet in my brain?" he asked, voice thick from his fangs.

She see-sawed her head. "Good point." With smooth motions, she aimed the gun in Stiles' direction, smirking.

Both Supes' eyes went wide, terror rolling off both of them in waves. Kate's own scent turned more victorious as she walked backwards to the now closed door, Garrett opening it and leaving the room. She paused just inside the hall, eyes still focused in her hostages, words aimed at someone just out of sight.

"Neither one leaves until the skinny one's dead," she ordered.

A man clad in black tactical gear wielding a shotgun reached inside and shut the door, the lock clicking behind him and a bar being slid in place for extra security.

They were trapped.

Shit.

Derek felt his anger rising, his wolf snarling within as it fought to get to the surface. The pain in his palms wasn't helping rein it in, his control slipping, and he knew it was that fucking wolfsbane he'd been injected with.

His features tingled as they tried to shift but he fought it off, jaw gritting and groans leaving him as he battled with his own body. It was just like a full moon, when he was no longer in charge of himself, only worse. Because he'd learned to go with the shift on those nights, to let it happen and still be in control of his actions. But this time, he felt totally out of it, felt like someone else had slipped behind the wheel of his body and was now running the show, using him like a puppet to perform whatever actions they wanted him to do.

Rage boiled up inside him as he fought to get out of his bonds, feeling the rope give way as his Supernatural strength kicked in. He snarled, lips peeled back to flash fangs, saliva building up as he thirsted for blood, for flesh, for the pounding heart and succulent sweat he was scenting.

Oh God.

No.

He regained some of his control, eyes snapping over to Stiles. His scent contained a mix of fear and determination, teeth gritted around the bandana and his arms wiggled behind him. Derek smelled fire and something burning before Stiles hands were freed, ripping the gag away and shoving the ropes from around his chest over his head.

"Don't think they knew I could do that," he said with a smirk, bending over to work on the ropes around his ankles. Derek struggled to remain in place as every inch of him longed to lunge at the other man and sink his teeth into the back of his neck, tearing his spine out.

"Garrett kept saying that me being tied up would be too suspicious but Kate kept telling him to leave me be, that you'd appreciate the offer more." One ankle free, he set to work on the other. "Led to a debate about whether or not you'd prefer the chase, Kate snapping that she was in charge and he needed to shut it or he was grounded." His second leg untied, he stood up and wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. "So weird to see her being a mom, ya know?"

Derek stared with a puzzled frown, wondering how the hell his Mate was being so casual about this. He was sitting there struggling not to break free and tear the guy apart and Stiles was rambling like it was any other day.

Hands on his hips, he gazed about the room, analyzing their surroundings. "They took your weapons, by the way," he pointed out, gesturing to the Werewolf. "Didn't want me to have anything I could use to fight back." He flicked a hand out, revealing claws half the size of Derek's. "These probably won't do much damage, huh?"

"Stiles," he called for the younger man's attention, voice strained from holding himself back. His chest was heaving from exertion, blood pouring out his palms, eyes flashing back and forth between their usual green and his wolven gold. "You need to go. As soon as possible."

The Kitsune pointed at him, still gazing about the room. "Fuck you, I'm not leaving you here."

"You don't have a choice," Derek rumbled, eyes locked onto a slender neck and longing to sink his fangs into it for a reason other than a desire to mark his territory. "I'm gonna kill you."

He rolled his eyes, finally looking at the other man. "You aren't gonna hurt me," he argued. "Mates, remember? You physically can't."

The Werewolf's body gave a sudden jerk, fighting his restraints in a huge burst of energy, snarling loudly. Stiles actually flinched at that, stepping backwards and throwing his hands up in front of his body in self-defense.

Calming himself down, Derek leaned towards the other male as far as possible, feeling his face pull into a wicked grin. "I might not have a choice."

In an act of bravery—or possibly stupidity, or most likely both—the Kitsune strode over and crouched in front of the Werewolf. He covered bloody hands with his own and tilted his head to the side, baring his neck. "No, you won't," he argued again, voice low but firm. His heart was steady, sure, displaying so much trust in the other man and confidence in their relationship that he was easily putting himself in a position of extreme vulnerability within reach of a near-feral Werewolf.

"Find your Anchor," he instructed in the same quiet voice, hands squeezing Derek's. "Find it and come back to me."

He locked eyes with wide whiskey ones, inhaling the younger man's scent with every breath, taking in his love, his trust, the basic scent that made Stiles who he was. He was love, lust, home, Pack, Derek's. The Werewolf could never hurt him; that was his Mate.

His pounding heart calmed down, features shifting back to human. His anger slipped away, the homicidal urge and desire to taste flesh leaving with it, and his body slumped in the chair as the fight went out of him.

"Found it," he breathed out, relief flooding him as he stared at the one thing that kept him human. His Stiles.

A grin broke over his face, eyes sparkling in delight, scent turning bright and happy. Without hesitation, he leaned over and kissed the older man, allowing Derek to feel his relief at having his Mate back.

"Now," Stiles began as he pulled back, working on the ropes around one of Derek's arms. "How the hell are we getting out of here?"

Chapter Text

Stiles freed one of Derek's arms before setting to work on an ankle, allowing the Werewolf to untie his other arm. Once he was unbound and standing up, the deputy glanced around at the room, trying to find something that could be used to get them out. But unfortunately, Kate was fucking clever and had clearly thought things through, locking them in an inner-office with no windows to sneak out of and no real discernible exit.

Unless...

His eyes locked onto the unfinished drywall, the slabs that hadn't been plastered into place yet, lips curving up as a thought formed in his mind. The scent of confusion wafted up his nose and he turned to see the puzzled frown his Mate was wearing, finger wagging as he pointed at the wall.

“You're thinking about busting through that, aren't you?”

His small smirk turned into a smug grin, feeling proud of the other man for figuring it out and a little cocky at the fact that he was even able to have busting through a wall be an option for escaping. “Yep.”

Stiles shook his head, hand running through his hair as he gazed around the room, only to fling his arm out again in an agitated flail. “Fuck, I hate that that's our only option,” he grumbled, arms folding over his chest, leg shaking in annoyance and anxiety. “It's gonna be loud as hell and we're gonna get caught pretty much immediately.”

The grin disappeared, Derek smearing a hand over his face and muffling a swear. He hadn't thought of that. Hell, he hadn't thought of anything past punching and kicking a hole in the wall big enough for them to get through. Probably another reason why the two of them were meant to be, why they made such a good team. The other man was clearly the brains of the whole thing, while he had always provided the brawn, proven by pranks they'd pulled on his sisters when they were both younger.

With a sigh, he put his fists on his hips, eyes locking onto the younger man. “Okay, so what's your plan?”

The Kitsune's eyes roamed the room before he stepped over to the chair Derek had just been tied to, lifting it up as though testing its weight.

“We have claws and fangs,” the Werewolf pointed out flatly, sneering in confusion and a little bit of offense that his own built-in weapons weren't enough.

Stiles rolled his eyes as he turned back to the older man. “I'm aware. But some of us would like to go without killing someone, self-defense or not. I have another plan in mind.” Placing the chair back down, he scuffed his way back over to his Mate, keeping his voice low as he outlined his idea. A smile slowly grew on Derek's face with each word, head nodding in agreement.

“Sounds good to me,” he commented when the younger man was finished, striding over to the wall he'd been previously eying, one that he assumed was shared by another office a lot like the one they were in.

Stiles hefted up the wooden chair once again, soundlessly carrying it over and placing it beside the door. Stepping up onto it, he took a deep breath to steel himself, wiped his hands on the sides of his pants, then nodded once at Derek.

Signal received, the Werewolf pulled his fist back and slammed it into the wall, creating a huge crater in the drywall.

As predicted, the bar slid back and the lock disengaged, the two guards entering with rifles at the ready. Once the second was in the room, Stiles jumped on his back, snarling as he used a length of rope that had previously been around Derek's wrist to choke the man.

Derek moved with Supe speed over to the other guard, punching him in the jaw before he got a chance to turn around and find out what was happening to his buddy. The blow knocked him over, the Werewolf taking the chance to check on his Mate, only to get his feet knocked out from under him. He landed with a hard “oomf” on his back, wincing at the pain, soon finding himself pinned into place by a human straddling his waist and moving his rifle to press against his captive's throat to choke him.

The deputy snarled at that, hands flying up to hold the weapon back. Using his strength, he shoved the guard off him, the human flying backwards and landing with a thud on the floor.

Not taking any chances, Derek hopped up onto his feet and raced over, hauling him up by his throat. The rifle had been lost upon impact, skittering off to the side, but the guard still fought like hell, hands grasping at his forearm and trying to pull him away.

A loud bang and a cry of pain caught his attention, head snapping over to see the result of Stiles' being slammed back against the wall by the guard he was trying to subdue, head rolling with dizziness, eyes crossing for a moment. The Kitsune was then flipped onto the ground, making him groan loudly upon impact, before he was hauled upright against the human. The rifle had been discarded, a pistol drawn from somewhere and held to the younger man's temple, thick hand wrapped around a slim neck.

Panic had Derek's heart freezing inside his too tight chest, eyes going wide, lips parting on a shaky gasp. Every muscle in his body tensed up, including those in his fingers, choking the guard he still had in his grasp.

“Let my friend go, you feral freak,” he threatened through clenched teeth. “Or I'll shoot this piece of shit.”

His eyes narrowed at the threat, fangs slamming down so fast they hurt, eyes immediately flashing to gold. “You do that and I'll rip his throat out,” he snarled right back, unsheathing his claws and making the human he held cry out.

“And then I'll shoot you in the head immediately after.”

It was on the Werewolf's tongue to point out that he honestly wouldn't care at that point, that shooting him would be a favor if Stiles was already dead. But he didn't wanna take any chances, not when his Mate's life was on the line.

His eyes flicked to the Kitsune, noting the terror in his scent, the panic in his wide eyes as he gasped for air. He was clutching onto the guard's forearm, trying to pull it away, yet the rest of him wasn't fighting. Because he knew that the second he did get free, chances were the trigger would be pulled, either on himself or on Derek.

And that was if he didn't die from oxygen deprivation first.

The guard tightened his grip on his neck, Stiles' eyes going wider and turning orange, fangs slipping free. The human holding him peeked around at him, chuckling in a malicious way.

“Well, look at that,” he commented in a mix of awe and disgust. “Sheriff's brat is an abomination, too.” His face contorted into a sneering smirk, nose wrinkled in repulsion, pressing the muzzle of the gun into his captive's head more. “Guess he'll just end up as another addition to the pile of dead as we cleanse the world of you freaks.”

Derek's eyes went wide as his heart completely froze in his chest, staring at his Mate. Fear had rendered him incapable of moving, of functioning, everything in him ceasing to exist or work except for the panic that welled up and clogged his throat.

The Kitsune was trembling, brows raising in the middle in sadness and anxiety. His eyes watered as they locked onto his Mate's, the terror in them completely obvious to even a blind man. He licked his lips, swallowed against the hand still gripping his throat, then mouthed one final phrase to Derek.

“Love you.”

The finger on the trigger tightened, pulling it back, the bullet ready to explode out the chamber.

Bang!

“No!” Derek cried out, the word barely audible past the ringing in his ears, the gunshot having wrecked his Supe hearing. He stood staring at the two men across the room, unable to tear his gaze away despite knowing what was about to happen. Blood forming on his Mate's temple, color draining from his face and the life leaving his eyes before his body fell to the ground.

Dead.

Only that didn't happen.

The guard slumped down, Stiles shoving his hand away from his throat before taking a gasping breath and stumbling to the side several steps. One hand reached up to steady himself against the wall beside the door, the other pressed gingerly to his throat as he panted wildly, every inhale a loud, rasping drag of air that made Derek's own throat hurt in sympathy.

A commotion rang out by the door, loud voices shouting, their words lost in the buzz in Derek's head and the ringing still sounding in his ears. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he could only stare as Argent lowered his gun, smoke rising out the muzzle of his Desert Eagle, eyes cold blue steel.

Stilinski was the next to enter the room, Parrish and Boyd behind him, the human and Kitsune both with guns drawn while the Werewolf had his fangs and claws out. The sheriff's head snapped around before finally settling on his son, calling out his name in relief and exaltation.

"Dad!" Stiles returned the cry with a rasp, shooting up from where he'd been doubled over and stumbling over, immediately being hauled into a tight hug. The scents of relief and joy were overwhelming, the sheriff seeming to be crying from it, eyes shinier than usual as they closed tight and he rested his head on his son's shoulder.

Parrish holstered his gun before heading over to his partner, worry forming a line between his brows. “You all right?” he asked in genuine concern, Body prying away the other guard from Derek and cuffing him.

"Thought you were gonna wait two hours," the elder Werewolf grumbled, frowning at the other deputy in confusion and annoyance, a small part of him glad he hadn't done as he'd said he would.

Okay, a big part.

A really big part, he admitted to himself, eyes coming across the dead body on the ground and how that almost had been Stiles.

The Kitsune smirked, green eyes sparkling. "Trickster, remember?" he pointed out cheekily.

Derek flipped him off with a scowl.

The worst now over, he peered down at himself and took inventory. There was a tear in his slacks from the syringe, blood staining his collar, the substance tacky on his neck and palms where it was drying. He felt a little soreness and a few bruises in his back where he'd landed, muscles achy from being tensed up for so long. But overall he was okay, no permanent damage done, no scarring or...

Stiles. Stiles had been beaten, had been in worse shape than himself, had been bruised and bloodied and scratched up when he arrived.

His eyes snapped over to where his Mate was standing by his dad, nodding his head and rubbing under his nose as the sheriff spoke lowly, the elder Stilinski with his hands on the shoulders of the younger one. The words were lost in the din of various conversations around him, countless more deputies having trickled in without him even noticing, investigating the crime scene.

As if knowing he was being watched, Stiles lifted his head and turned to Derek, tired smile forming on his face. The Werewolf didn't hesitate or even think it through, rushing over and crashing into his Mate, crushing him in a tight hug. He buried his face in the crook of his neck, scenting him, cupping the back of his neck to try and leech away any pain he was experiencing.

"I'm fine," Stiles whispered, words muffled against the older man's shoulder. A blip in his heartbeat gave away the lie, his body still trembling slightly from the shock of it all and the adrenaline more than likely still coursing through his body. "No pain, no injuries. I have my healing tail, I'm okay."

Derek slumped against him, eyes closing, lashes wet from relieved tears he hadn't been aware were falling. He'd come so close to losing his Mate on a permanent basis, and it only hit him at that moment, with Stiles' scent in his nose and heart beating against his chest, that he was okay, that they were both okay.

He had Stiles alive and well and in his arms. He was better than fucking okay.

The interrogation rooms at the station were as nondescript and as cliché as possible. Gray cement block walls, two-way window beside the only door, table, a chair on either side, one to the side just in case, no windows, annoying loudly buzzing fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling.

After leaving the Argent Arms warehouse, Derek had been taken to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital in order to be checked out. Standard procedure, Stilinski had reminded him and Stiles both, but concern was coloring his scent and he knew the sheriff was beyond worried. He'd apologized for not telling his boss about Stiles' abduction but was waved off, Stilinski insisting he understood and that they were both gonna let it go.

He'd told Parrish what Kate had said about having a Banshee under control, the other deputy immediately leaving to tell the sheriff. His statement had been made at the hospital before he was asked to return to the station to wrap it all up. After being led into one of the interrogation rooms by Lahey, he'd been left to wait, slowly growing bored and worried that Stilinski actually was pissed at him for not telling him about Stiles' abduction.

Shit.

He was on desk duty for sure.

He sighed, resting his elbows on the table and shoving his hands in his hair. He'd conducted a loosely legal search with a civilian. He'd withheld information and obstructed justice. He'd nearly torn the sheriff's son apart after not telling him his kid was missing. He'd turned his partner into an accomplice.

Definitely riding a desk for a while. If not suspended completely.

The door opened and Stilinski strode through, expression flat, manila folder in his hands. Derek dropped his own hands, watching the older man get closer, pull the chair out, sit opposite him. His heart was pounding in his chest, stomach tied up in nervous knots, and he wondered if that was how all suspects felt when about to be interrogated.

Made a guy never wanna break the law again.

Not that he technically had. Kinda.

The sheriff laid the folder open on the table, clearing his throat as he grabbed two photos and slid them in front of his deputy.

Tilting his head down, Derek inspected the images, immediately realizing what they were: mugshots of Kate Argent and Garrett Smith.

"Argent and McCall picked them up at a gas station half an hour north of town," Stilinski explained, hands folded on top of the other contents in the folder. "Their SUV was full of luggage and boxes, including one full of copy paper and blank CDs." He gave his deputy a pointed look, wordlessly stated that he knew where those supplies had come from and how the two suspects had acquired them.

Derek just shrugged, not sorry in the slightest. "I'll pay for the replacements," he volunteered, thinking of his family's good fortune in the financial department and his untouched trust fund. It would be easy for him to never work a day in his life—like his uncle Peter, for example—but he happened to love his job and he'd inherited his mother's work ethic, making it impossible for him to be satisfied with spending his days lazing.

The sheriff sighed and shook his head, smelling more amused than put out. "We also looked into what you mentioned regarding Brunski using a Banshee, possibly one at Eichen House."

The Werewolf sat up straighter at that, leaning closer to his boss. He'd heard that Brunski had been picked up and was being questioned himself, supposedly giving up info for a good deal. The second Haigh had been told about that, he started spilling his guts, telling everything he knew about every murder. Wasn't much more than what they already had, but it would make him a good corroborating witness during Kate and Garrett's trials.

Stilinski slid the file in front of him, Derek looking over the sheet on top. In the top right corner was a black and white shot of a frail girl with huge dark eyes and a short afro, tiny shoulders hunched up around a long neck. Typed words filled the rest of the page, the Eichen House logo across the top.

"Her name's Meredith Walker," the sheriff informed him, scratching the side of his neck. "No family to speak of. Foster family she was living with had no clue how to deal with a girl who claimed she heard voices in the plucking of piano strings and who'd scream for no reason, so they had her committed. She's spent most of her life in that place, alone and forgotten about, until Brunski came along and used her."

Derek's jaw went taut with anger, eyes narrowing as he glared at the paper like it was Brunski himself. Thank god the bastard was locked up because Derek wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from killing the bigoted asshole.

"What's gonna happen to her?" he questioned, voice dripping with concern over a young girl he'd never even met.

A soft smile formed on Stilinski's face, blue eyes twinkling. "Lydia's already talking to her mom about taking the girl in," he informed him, scent and grin turning into something more amused. "If not, she's taken a liking to Parrish." He chuckled, rubbing at his forehead as he shook his head in disbelief and humor.

A tired grin of his own formed on his face, the Werewolf relieved and glad to hear that everyone was getting a happy ending.

The sheriff folded his hands on the table again, staring his deputy down. "You look like you haven't slept in weeks," he stated bluntly, barely having any room to talk considering the dark circles under his own eyes. "Take a couple vacation days. I know for a fact that you've saved them up. And if I see you at this station for work before New Year's, I'm firing your ass."

Derek laughed, tired smile on his face as he nodded and let out a small "yes, sir."

Stilinski rose to his feet and gestured at the other man to do the same. Derek did as suggested, watching as his boss stepped closer and embraced him a tight hug he usually reserved for Stiles.

"I'm glad you're okay, son," he commented lowly, honestly. "I would've hated to lose both my kids."

Derek pulled back at that, brow drawn in confusion, lips parted slightly. "Both your kids?" he questioned, heart pounding out of hope for what he wanted the words to mean: that Stilinski called him "son" because that's how he viewed him, not because it was an automatic name for any younger male in a subservient position; that he was family out of his own merits; that Stilinski still approved of Derek being with Stiles.

"Yeah," the older man said with a smile, hand clapped on his deputy's shoulder. "Both. You feel like just as much a son as my actual flesh and blood. And since you'll one day be Mating him—?" He trailed off, the statement turning into more of a question, as though he wasn't entirely sure that was still gonna happen.

The corner of Derek's lips curved up in a wistful smile at the thought of Mating Stiles, at the thought of them making official what they already felt.

"If he'll have me," he replied honestly.

The sheriff laughed, shifting so his arm was wrapped around the younger man's shoulders and leading him to the door. "He'll have you, trust me," he assured, walking them both through the observation room and opening the portal to the hallway. "Now go home. And take my idiot kid with you."

"Hey!" Stiles called out in offense as they exited the room, the Kitsune already waiting for them. He held his hands out to the side, gesturing helplessly, frowning in a "what the fuck did I do?" kinda way.

Releasing his grip on Derek, Stilinski stepped over to his biological son, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "I love you, Kid, but you can be an idiot," he stated plainly, giving him a pointed look.

Stiles opened his mouth to object, only to snap it shut again with a click when he realized he couldn't argue. His dad gave a pointed "uh huh", knowing he was right, before leaving them and heading to his office.

The younger Stilinski pointed after the older with his thumb, turning his confused look on his Mate. "What the hell was that about?"

Derek breathed out a laugh, stepping up to the other man and putting his hands on his Mate's hips, pressing their foreheads together. "I've been ordered to go on vacation starting immediately," he informed him, thumbs slipping under his sleep shirt and rubbing sensitive hip bones. The effect was the same as it had been, a shiver racking the younger man's body and sparking his arousal. "And I'm starting it by sleeping for twelve hours."

Stiles let out a tired groan, entire body sagging against the older man's broader frame, head on his shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around his upper torso. "Sleep sounds so good. I feel like I haven't had a good night's sleep in three years."

The Werewolf wrapped his arms around his Mate's waist and held him close, nose buried in his hair and inhaling his scent with every breath. "Join me."

A groan of a different sort and a roll of the hips was all the answer Derek got and needed.

A shower ended up being first on the agenda, both of them too tired to really do anything except lean against one another and lazily clean. Derek scrubbed at his Mate until his scent was pure Stiles, erasing all the terror and dirt and blood from earlier. His injuries were healed up, gash a pink line that appeared as though it had been there for weeks, split lip nothing more than dry skin, bruises completely gone.

Cleaned and dried, they crawled naked into his bed, Derek on his back, Stiles using the Werewolf as a pillow, both their arms around each other and their legs tangled under the sheets. With his nose pressed into wet brown hair, Derek fell asleep to his Mate's heartbeat in his ear and scent in his nose.

He slept better than he had in years.

Derek woke up hard. Which wasn't surprising considering he also woke up with his Mate pressed against his front, naked and smelling aroused. His hard cock was laying perfectly between two bare cheeks, hips rolling on automatic, trying desperately to get inside that tight grip he loved so much, even while sleeping.

A groan came from Stiles, hips moving so they were grinding back against Derek's cock, making him gasp, eyes shooting open. His fingers were splayed against the leaner male's chest, heart rapidly beating against his palm, lungs expanding and contracting rapidly and shakily.

He whined, genuinely whined, each inhale of his own dragging in the scent of Stiles' arousal and need, causing his cock to throb and his wolf to howl, demanding he mount the other male already and knot them together.

"Oh thank fuck you're awake," Stiles groaned, forearm flexing as he adjusted his grip on the edge of mattress. His voice was high, needy, rough with desire, and the sound went straight to his dick, knot pulsing beneath the surface.

"You should've woken me," he rumbled, dragging his lip along the shell of his ear and making him shiver and gasp.

Stiles ground his hips back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "You needed the sleep."

"Need you more," he argued, nipping his lobe.

The younger man breathed out a swear before flipping over and crashing their lips together. Derek could feel exactly how much Stiles needed him, the want he had for him. His hair was tugged, leg slinging over his hips to pull him closer, hard cocks rubbing together. He let out a satisfied rumble at the thought of his Mate's precome smearing with his own, their scents mixing together. Reaching down, he wrapped a hand around both of them, stroking lazily.

Stiles pulled away and glared, a small growl escaping past his lips. "I swear to god, Der, if you don't fuck me—"

The Werewolf cut him off by kissing him again, slipping his tongue inside his mouth and tasting him.

He rolled the younger man onto his back, lips moving to his neck, nibbling along his way, nipping at his collarbone. His Mate trembled beneath him, breaths nothing more than gasps, chest shuddering with every inhale.

Derek raised himself up, sitting between the younger man's legs, finally getting a good look at him. He'd put on some muscle, pecs more defined, torso featuring slight indentations of a six-pack, rather than completely flat and skinny all the way down as it had been. But all his favorite moles were still there, all those chocolate dots Derek loved to kiss and nip and form pictures with, his own constellations to count when unable to sleep.

"God, you're still beautiful," he breathed, hand roaming over smooth skin, watching the pale skin go red as he blushed.

Raising himself up slightly, Stiles grabbed the older man by the back of the neck. "C'mere, Sap Wolf," he ordered, hauling him in and kissing him as he fell back down against the bed.

Their lips moved together in familiar ways, the taste of Stiles making Derek's head swim and he remembered why he believed he could never do this with anyone else. Because no one would ever compare, could ever compare. Stiles was the gold standard, the epitome of everything in Derek's eyes and there was no way anyone could ever come close to reaching his level.

Hands roamed a leaner frame, feeling flesh that was both foreign and familiar, reacquainting himself with a home he hadn't been to in a long time. Because that's what Stiles was to him: home and a place where he felt safe, loved, where he belonged. And he knew deep down within that he was the same thing for the younger man.

They parted after some time, both panting, both with stinging lips and flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. His cock was an angry length between his legs but he ignored it, running his nose along the soft flesh in the crook of his Mate's arm and inhaling the pure scent of him. His head swam with it, needing more, slipping down the bed and nosing at his groin.

Fingers slid into his hair as legs spread wide to accommodate him, bucking hips all the permission he needed. His nose teasingly ran up along his Mate's erect dick, his scent heady and musky but so very much his and Derek wanted, needed more.

He parted his lips and took him in his mouth, not pausing until his nose was buried in soft curls. Stiles gasped, back bowing off the bed as he stretched out a groan, hand slamming against the mattress.

"Ah, fuck! Jesus, Der, your mouth, oh God, suck me."

His smile was distorted by the hard length between his lips, but he set to work, pulling back to suck hard on the head, tongue massaging the bundle of nerves underneath. His hair was pulled, his Mate crying out in pleasure, his free arm flailing about. Derek reached up and twined their fingers together, feeling his being crushed and claws pricking the back of his hand.

He got lost in the Kitsune's reactions, in the feel of him on his tongue, in the scent of him, in the way his skin grew hotter under his ministrations. But soon Stiles' moans turned to whines and he started hitting the Werewolf's bare shoulders, grumbling.

"Jesus, Der, just fuck me," he ordered, huffing. "Foreplay later. Sex now."

Derek pulled off with a laugh, amused at how backwards that statement was and how only his Mate would complain over too much foreplay. But he did as instructed, moving up and stretching himself over the leaner male, loving the fact that they were so close in height so that it wasn't an issue to be spread along him like this, all the important parts of them lining up. He rolled his hips for emphasis, earning a groan and a slap to the back of his head.

"Prep me, asshole," Stiles demanded with a glare.

Derek smirked as he reached into his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube that had only seen action from his own hand in recent times. "So romantic," he deadpanned with an eye roll, the other man's glare intensifying.

"Eat me."

"Later," he promised with a wink, lubing up his fingers. "You said no more foreplay."

Stiles kept glaring, but his scent told a completely different story, arousal flaring up even more. Both of them knew that rimming wasn't just foreplay, that Derek loved making it the main event. He could eat his Mate out for hours and never get bored, had once made Stiles come three times from that alone before the guy had tapped out, grumbling about being human and not having Supernatural stamina.

Clearly that wouldn't be an issue for them anymore.

Reaching down and around, Derek slipped a finger inside him, Stiles gasping out in pleasure. His leg wrapped around the older man's waist, helping spread himself and bring their cocks together once again. Their hips rolled and their lips reconnected, the Werewolf taking his time to stretch his partner.

Until Stiles grew impatient and slipped a finger in alongside Derek's two.

"Healing tail, remember?" he grumbled. "Need you. Now."

Derek nipped his neck in retaliation, slipping a third finger inside, bringing the total to four. "Need to knot you," he informed him, voice a needy rumble. And it was true. After going so long without his Mate, he was desperate. His wolf needed to claim, to mark, to finish what had been started three years prior, before Stiles had freaked and run off.

And the urge to tie them together had been made worse after the actions of that day. They'd both nearly died, had nearly been ripped apart from each other forever. The fear of the near loss and the ecstasy of their survival had ratcheted up Derek's emotions, everything now on overload, and he felt almost feral from all of it.

Stiles groaned at his request, hips bucking before slipping his finger out of himself and pulling the other man's hand away. In a flash, he was on his stomach, hands parting his cheeks and revealing his stretched hole. “Then knot me,” he urged, side of his face pressed against a pillow as he gazed back at the Werewolf.

A rumbling growl emanated from the older man's chest at the presentation and he quickly slicked himself up. He wasted no time, body desperate and already on the edge, cock so hard it was angry, and as soon as he was lined up with the leaner male's hole, he pressed inside.

Groans escaped both of them, Stiles at being filled, Derek at being held, and he didn't stop until he was fully sheathed inside. He pressed their bodies together, forehead resting at the top of his Mate's spine as he just breathed, trying to remain calm, to remain collected, to remain human. But Stiles' nonexistent patience was kicking in again and he whined, bucking his hips and grumbling out commands for the other man to “fuckin' move already”.

And who was Derek to deny his Mate what he wanted?

He pulled back until the head was tugging at his rim and making the younger man cry out in pleasure, thrusting back in with smooth motions. He felt his cock being hugged in his Mate's tight grip, felt his inner-walls rippling around him and making him gasp with every exhale, body shuddering above a trembling one.

Stiles' scent was overwhelming, sweat covering his skin, arousal pouring out every inch of him. Derek reveled in it, nose practically glued to his neck, holding that sweet scent in his lungs. He'd gone three fucking years without that scent, without the way Stiles felt trembling beneath him, without the gasping breaths he'd choke out as he was being filled, without the way his hips rolled in rhythm with Derek's as they both drove one another higher and further.

His hand slipped under the pillow, finding the younger man's and covering it, their fingers twining together. The Kitsune's skin grew hotter, parted lips revealing tiny fangs, eyes flickering orange with every thrust in. Stiles was losing control in a way Derek had only witnessed once, his own rein on his inner-animal loose and shaky. The Werewolf knew how it felt, remembered claws tearing at pillows and couches when fooling around with his Mate, remembered hearing Stiles groan at the sight of his fangs, remembered seeing him with his wolf eyes because he hadn't come back to earth enough to regain his human ones.

And now, he was watching Stiles going through the same thing, was watching as pleasure drove him so high and so out of it that he couldn't keep himself human, keep himself Anchored. It was exhilarating to watch him lose control like that, a real ego booster that he was able to cause those reactions in another person, made all the better by the fact that it was the one he loved.

“Not gon' last,” Stiles slurred, free hand sliding down the mattress to wrap around himself, steam rising off his heated skin.

Derek groaned against sweat-soaked skin, his knot pulsing at the base of his cock. A swear left him on a breath as the gland was squeezed by the Kitsune's inner-walls, grabbed onto by his rim, the pucker tightening every time Derek pulled out, trying to keep the knot in.

“Fuck, Der, knot me,” the younger man groaned, forearm flexing as he held his own dick. But his hand didn't move, didn't jerk himself off, just simply held itself there.

The Werewolf let his imagination run wild, picturing Stiles' own knot, the one that had originally freaked him out so bad he'd run off. He was dying to see it, dying to note how it compared to his own, dying to watch his Mate hold it within his tight grip as he spurted out an abundance of come. Maybe next time he'd knot Stiles face-to-face so he could watch it, could be covered in his Mate's seed. Maybe one day he'd pull out and keep hold of his own knot, rub it against the other man's, mix their come together and lick it off one another.

His knot fully expanded then, making it impossible to pull out. He panted against his Mate's neck, eyes shut tight as he ground his hips, as he tried to gain some sort of friction, as he tried to make them both come.

“Stiles,” he whimpered, hand gripping a pale shoulder as his forearm lay on the bed, making sure he didn't crush the other man. “Need. Need.” He had no clue what he needed, had no clue where the hell exactly he was going with that train of thought.

But Stiles seemed to know, working his inner-walls and massaging his knot, squeezing it repeatedly and letting it go.

“No,” he whined, tightening his grip on the younger man's hand in objection. “You. First.”

A head shake was the only response he got, the Kitsune glancing back at him with glowing orange eyes, fangs digging into his own bottom lip, steam still rising off his sweat-soaked skin and heating the air around them.

“Der,” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against the Werewolf's. “Mate.”

He exploded at that, spilling himself inside the other man as he came almost violently. His eyes shot open, free hand shooting up to dig his claws into his headboard. His head reared back as he roared, fangs slamming down so fast it hurt, his entire body seizing up as he orgasmed.

His name was a growl as he felt Stiles shuddering beneath him, as he scented his Mate's come, as he knew his partner was flying over the edge. They both panted heavily as they came down, Derek nuzzling the back of the younger man's neck, lips dragging over the sweaty skin, lapping up his taste. With one last squeeze, he released the other man's hand, sliding his own down the mattress and under their bodies. Stiles' curiosity piqued, his body lifting up as he peered down. Derek smirked against his skin, wrapping his fingers around his Mate's knot and squeezing it hard, the way he knew he liked it when he played with his own.

He put his lips by the younger man's ear, roughing up the delicate skin with his short beard. “I can't wait to feel this inside me,” he admitted in a raspy whisper.

Stiles' groans filled the loft as he came again.

There wasn't much else to do when tied together so they talked.

Well, Stiles talked. Derek mainly just listened as he nuzzled his nose and pressed his lips to whatever skin he could reach as the two lay on their sides, hands entwined on the mattress. The Kitsune talked about his life in New York, about a shared love of Marvel he had in common with Kira, about a job he had at a comic book store, about adjusting from living in a house with one other member who was hardly around to three members with one working mostly from home. He told Derek about how he'd taken a year off after he'd left to get his head straight and his powers under control—as well as dealing with a bone deep depression he could never fully shake himself out of, not until he'd returned to Beacon Hills and saw Derek again—before getting his GED online. He talked about attending NYU and how he'd considered MIT, but was afraid of running into Lydia and being murdered by her stiletto.

Derek quipped that he had every right to be because she'd threatened that very thing towards him quite a few times.

Stiles reached back and smacked him, small grin on his face.

“What's gonna happen between us?” the younger man asked after a long moment of silence, fingers nervously playing with Derek's, eyes locked onto them. “I mean, I gotta go back to New York after winter break so. What's up with us?”

Derek nuzzled the back of his ear, letting his Mate's scent calm him. “Long distance relationships are a thing, Stiles.”

“I know,” he stated, rubbing underneath his nose. His scent was sad, worried, self-deprecating, and the Werewolf wanted to wipe it all away by kissing him all over. “I just wasn't sure if you wanted to do that.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around the leaner male, pulling him impossibly closer. “I want anything that allows me to have you.”

The Kitsune's scent turned bright and happy once again, his head turning to beam up at him. “You'll always have me,” he confessed lowly before continuing at a normal volume. “And we'll always have breaks in school. And once I graduate, I'm moving back here for good.”

Derek felt his own face and scent light up, breaking out in a grin so huge it hurt. “And when that happens, we'll see about making everything more official. Mate”

Their kiss was awkward and impossible to continue giving the strange angle it was taking place at, but it didn't matter. He had Stiles back in his life and was soon gonna have him on a more permanent basis.

And to think, Derek had been wanting to sleep through Christmas that year.

Chapter Text

“I guess I shouldn't really complain, but—” Stilinski trailed off with a sigh, hand working the back of his neck as he stared unseeing at his desk. “That's two graduations he won't be walking in.”

Derek pressed his lips into a hard line, not really sure if he should argue with his boss-slash-future-father-in-law. Really, he was beyond thrilled with the whole thing and beyond proud of Stiles for graduating early. The Kitsune had doubled his course load, taking as many classes as he was allowed in order to gain the right amount of credits and hours in order to get his degree a year and a half before he was scheduled to.

Sure, it led to a very tired Mate and most of their Skype conversations—which was Stiles' doing, the younger man insisting that FaceTime wasn't enough and he needed to see the Werewolf's face in a higher resolution and who was Derek to deny his Mate what he wanted—consisted of Stiles either studying—sometimes with Derek's help—or falling asleep rather than the fun kinky activities the younger man had promised when convincing the deputy to accept the gift of a better laptop. Not that it was much of a gift, since Stiles had purchased it with a credit card he'd snuck out of Derek's wallet, an act that led to the Werewolf telling him “Swiper no swiping” and the Kitsune hitting him with a pillow for the terrible fox-related joke.

But when he thought about all that shit, at the end of the day, he realized it truly didn't matter, not the stolen credit card or the lack of Skype sex or the whimpering wolf worried over its Mate's well-being as the bags under his eyes became more pronounced with each internet call. Because soon, Derek would have his Mate home, for good. Not some stupid school break, not a limited vacation where he also had to share Stiles with his dad and his best friends. No, now he was gonna be able to have the younger man around as much as he wanted, as often as he wanted.

Fuck, he couldn't wait.

And while he was excited to have his Mate actually living in the same city as him once again, he understood where the sheriff was coming from. Because Stiles hadn't been able to wear a cap and gown and walk across a stage to get his high school diploma. And now, with him getting his college degree before most students were headed off for winter break, he wasn't gonna have a ceremony for that either. Derek didn't even know if Stiles had been given the actual diploma yet, the piece of paper declaring him a graduate, or if he'd have to wait for it to arrive in the mail.

“Don't get me wrong,” Stilinski continued, gesturing to his deputy with his hand. “I'm damn glad to have my son be coming home, and on a permanent basis. But it would just be nice to be able to see him in a cap and gown and have this big formal thing.”

This time, Derek nodded from his seat across the desk, able to relate to the sentiment. While he was proud of Stiles' accomplishments, it would've been really amazing to be able to sit in an audience as he was handed his diploma. His mind had conjured up the fantasy plenty times, the wide grin that would be on Stiles' face as he took hold of the leather binder, fist in the air in victory. Derek and the sheriff—and whoever else had made the trip to NYC—would all be in the audience, cheering, clapping. Scott would let out a few “whoop!”s, Cora would give him a “way to go, loser!” and getting a smack from a reprimanding Alpha Hale, Nurse McCall would be smiling proudly at her surrogate son while simultaneously dealing with Stilinski who would be insisting that he wasn't crying. And Derek? Derek would be cheering the loudest, probably howling along with Scott, loudly declaring “that's my Mate!” as he smiled brightly at the younger man.

But graduating early was what Stiles wanted and, once again, Derek couldn't deny him.

He was seriously gonna have to work on that, otherwise his life was gonna become nothing more than dealing with a petulant brat who constantly got his way.

Not that it didn't work both ways. Being a Supe himself now, Stiles was unable to resist giving Derek everything he wanted, which made deciding what restaurant to eat out at incredibly annoying. They'd finally been able to work out a system of taking turns, which worked until Stiles' next trip home and neither one could remember whose turn it was.

That problem was solved by the Kitsune marking everything on the older man's calendar, which, in turn, led to the Werewolf being unable to throw any of them out. Stiles ended up finding them, along with ticket stubs and other mementos from their dates Derek also held on to and found great joy in giving his Mate hell for it.

“Pack Rat Wolf” was the most annoying nickname ever.

“Still,” Stilinski went on, picking up a business card and tapping it on the desk solely for something to do with his hands. “I'm glad he's coming home. And I'm sure you'll be glad to get rid of the boxes taking up space in your loft.”

Derek snorted as he nodded at that, scratching his whisker-covered jaw. Six months after Stiles' return to Beacon Hills, the Yukimuras officially moved to town. Noshiko wanted to be close to Parrish to help him out, deciding he needed her more than her daughter and surrogate son, both of whom had settled into their powers. Her Mate gained a job as a history teacher at the local high school, while Kira and Stiles got an apartment together in the city as they continued attending NYU.

The female Kitsune also came to town during her own breaks, spending an increasing amount of time with Malia, and although she wasn't graduating for another year and a half, there was still plenty talk of her moving in with the Werecoyote when she was finished with school.

But during the sale of the Yukimura home, Stiles had sent a couple boxes of his belongings back to Beacon Hills. They had initially shown up at the Stilinski home, only for the sheriff to insist that Derek take them to his place because “let's face it, son, when Stiles moves back, he won't be moving in with me”. The Werewolf had flushed with a pounding heart as he gave a rough “yes, sir”, doing as he was ordered.

Stiles had flailed himself out of his chair that night when Derek told him what happened during their Skype chat. He'd smiled brightly once he recovered though, stating it was obviously a sign that his dad approved of them being together and that everything was even more official now. The Werewolf hadn't the heart to tell him the sheriff had approved before they'd even kissed the first time, not wanting to dampen his Mate's enthusiasm.

Not that he could get a word past Stiles' ramble over how they should go furniture shopping his next trip back home, since the one drawer Derek had cleared out for him months before wasn't gonna be enough anymore.

More boxes had shown up at the loft in recent days, Stiles' belongings being sent ahead of him as he began the process of moving out. He would've been in Beacon Hills himself, but he'd been stuck dealing with landlord issues, the apartment owner not all that willing to let Stiles out of the rental agreement and replace him with Kira's new roommate. It had led to a lot of angry rants during phone and Skype calls, but Derek had managed to distract his Mate—and unfortunately scar Kira a little, since Stiles had spent his final week in New York on the couch and she had the bad fortune to walk through during a more x-rated Skype session.

Derek had chocolate covered strawberries sent to her in apology. Stiles' insisted his own apology was not stealing any of them or making rude remarks over noises from Kira's own room when Malia had visited.

Wouldn't be long before roommates were no longer a factor in their sex life ever again.

Also wouldn't be long until he had to get to his mom's for her Christmas Eve party.

Shit, he had no clue what time it was.

Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he saw he still had two hours until that was set to start, an hour until his shift ended, and thirty minutes until Stiles' was scheduled to be back in Beacon Hills.

God, he was so close, but still so far.

His knee started bouncing as he returned his cell where it'd been, hand roughing over his mouth repeatedly. His stomach was filling with butterflies and knotting up, heart pounding in his chest, wolf pacing about inside his mind as it let out anxious whimpers. His Mate was soon to be in the same state as him, on a permanent basis, and he was stuck at work.

Not that it was anyone's fault really. It was just the way things had worked out. And in order to get Christmas off—a request he'd put in for the first time in four years—he'd been scheduled to work a double on Christmas Eve, his shift ending right before he had to head to his family's house for their party. It just so happened to coincide with Stiles' flight—the first one he'd been able to get after all the crap with his landlord had finally been situated and during the rush of holiday travel—arriving in San Francisco.

He muttered out a swear, causing his boss to raise an eyebrow in question. A wince formed on his own face before he dropped his hand onto his lap with a smack. “Sorry, just,” he began then paused. “Wish I was the one who'd been able to pick him up.” He wrapped it up with a shrug, trying to play it off like it wasn't a big thing when it was killing him inside. He wanted to be the one standing at that arrival gate, maybe even holding up a sign that would get him ribbed for weeks by his Mate—and probably his sisters and Parrish if they ever found out. He wanted one of those reunions like at the end of Love Actually where his Mate came rushing out the gate, jumping on him, and Derek would catch him and spin him around and they wouldn't be able to kiss properly because they were smiling so big.

But no. Derek had to work and couldn't take the time off to drive to San Fran to pick up his Mate from the airport. Because despite getting everything he wanted, the Universe still kinda hated him.

Stilinski snorted, head bobbing with the motion before see-sawing it in concession. The deputy figured his boss would've liked to do the same thing, would've loved to pick up his son and spend the long car ride back chatting like they had during old family road trips. But, unfortunately, the schedule had him working Christmas Eve also, vacation days used up by a trip to NYC to visit his son and a weekend in Napa Valley with Nurse McCall that he insisted hadn't been romantic while Stiles, Scott, Derek, and Parrish all argued to the contrary.

“Well, the way I see it,” the sheriff began, leaning his seat back and clasping his hands on top of his head, “This is the only alone time Scott's gonna get with his best friend for a long time.”

Derek knew that his boss wasn't implying that he'd be the only one hogging Stiles, knew he was referring to how popular Stiles was and how everyone was gonna want to spend time with the guy now that he was back in town permanently. His visits had always been filled with hanging out with this friend and that, going here and there, running himself ragged in an effort to please everyone and see them all. And chances were, the first few weeks of him living here were gonna be exactly the same, especially considering the fact that it was the holidays.

But despite knowing that, Derek still felt his ears burn as he began blushing at the perceived belief that his boss was implicating his sex life with his son. Because in the Werewolf's mind, Stiles was gonna be too busy in bed with him in order to hang out with Scott or anyone else for that matter, schedule filled with nothing but knotting and orgasms, making up for lost time caused by Stiles' disappearance and his studies.

Made working for your Mate's dad incredibly awkward at times.

The sheriff caught on pretty quick—obviously, otherwise he wouldn't have been reelected this past fall—grimacing at his deputy's reaction to his words. Regardless of how much approval he gave of their relationship, he still wasn't all that comfortable with his son being sexually active—despite Stiles' constantly pointing out how he was legal and an adult and fully consenting in everything they did, which was another statement that made the sheriff grimace.

“Why don't you go finish up some paperwork or something before you need to leave?” he suggested with a wrinkled nose and a scrunched up mouth.

Derek cleared his throat before rising to his feet and giving a mock-salute to his boss, wondering when the hell he'd started doing that and mentally growling at his Mate for instilling the habit in him. He left the door open upon exiting the office, passing by Parrish's knowing grin as the other deputy spoke on the phone to Ms Abernathy with her weekly complaint over the little boy next door wolfing out and digging in her roses. He simply flipped his partner off as he continued his way to his desk, sinking down onto his chair with a sigh.

His paperwork was pretty much done, having been filled out earlier that day. Well, except for maybe a damn good proofreading, considering the fact that he'd sped-typed and chances were all of it was filled with a thousand typos. Definitely needed to be cleaned up before he submitted it.

Wiggling his mouse, he waited for his ancient desktop to wake up, eyes roaming his desk. A wire photo holder sat on the left, containing photos of his family—including Chris—himself and his friends—which he had now, much to his own surprise. One photo was taken during a triple date to a bowling alley, featuring himself, Stiles, Scott, Allison, Parrish, and Lydia. Another was himself and Stiles with Boyd, his fiancée Erica, and Lahey. Turns out, Derek could be quite social when he wasn't suffering Separation Sickness and moping like a pathetic asshole—Laura's words, of course.

A couple featured himself and Stiles together, his eyes focusing on one in the front when Stiles had grabbed his face and kissed him hard. A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, noting his Mate wearing his maroon sweater with his thumb through the holes and the backwards black ball cap he'd stolen from Derek, while the Werewolf sported a NYU tee Stiles had gotten him and worn around for a week so it smelled like him.

Only a couple more hours until he could see his Mate, until he could smell his actual scent with every inhale and hold him in his arms and never let go, even when Stiles complained that he was being a Smother Wolf.

His eyes flicked over to the tiny tree made of gold tinsel Lydia had given him the previous year, small fox and wolf ornaments hanging off the front, a red heart-shaped button with S & D painted on in white sitting on top. His grin grew at the sight, heart skipping a beat as the butterflies reappeared in his stomach.

Parrish snickered from his desk near the front, Derek narrowing his eyes at his partner, who was now off the phone and glancing back at him. “Sappy much?” the Kitsune murmured, smirking in amusement.

Derek just kept glaring as he muttered out “like you have room to talk” before grabbing a scrap piece of paper, balling it up, and throwing it at the other man.

Who made it burst into flames in mid-air, causing his grin to widen and his green eyes to sparkle as he winked back at his partner.

The Werewolf scoffed before turning his attention on his screen. “Still have no room to talk.”

He tuned out Parrish's chuckles by focusing on the music playing from Greenberg's radio at the front desk, allowing himself to get lost in the sounds of some blues singer he didn't recognize crooning at his baby to please come home for Christmas, “if not for Christmas, by New Year's night”. His grin grew and he didn't care who saw or what stupid reaction his partner would have. All that mattered was the fact that he no longer related to that damn song.

Barring a life-altering disaster, his baby was gonna be home for Christmas.

“Is your mom aware this song is about date rape?”

Derek's eyebrows shot up from behind his squat glass and he was glad as hell he hadn't been drinking anything—yet—otherwise he would've sputtered his dad's good Scotch—which he was only allowed to drink due to the fact that it was Christmas and to celebrate Stiles' graduation—everywhere. Lowering the tumbler, he peered down at Lydia, one eyebrow remaining raised in question as his mouth hung open in shock and confusion.

Lydia, of course, was completely unfazed by her random statement, flipping curly red hair behind her shoulder, ever present dog tags jangling with the motion, fairy lights reflecting off her vintage Cartier engagement ring—which he only knew was a vintage Cartier ring because she'd said so to literally every person she came across over the past three months. Being raised human, she and Parrish had decided to take the more traditional route with an engagement then a wedding, rather than a Mating, another fact she told literally every person she came across over the past three months.

The sight of her ring always made Derek smile at the knowledge of his two best friends being so happy together, then wonder what exactly he and Stiles would do. He'd personally opt for a Mating, but since Stiles had grown up believing to be human, then chances were he'd want a wedding like his parents had. Maybe they could do both? He honestly had no idea if that was an option his Mate would be open to, since they never really discussed anything beyond Stiles' graduation, aside from moving in together—which was always in a more general term, until the sheriff ordered Derek to collect his son's belongings—and the Kitsune trying to obtain a job at the SRB in the Research and History Department, where Laura already worked.

Maybe they should start discussing it now. After all, they'd been together for two years—granted a majority of it was long distance, but whatever—and that seemed like a reasonable amount of time in human terms. Hell, if it'd been up to Derek, he would've proposed a Mating during their first date soon after Stiles had been released from the hospital. But he'd been doing everything the human way so he'd kept his mouth shut.

Whole lotta good that did him.

“I mean, when you actually pay attention to the lyrics,” Lydia continued, drawing him back to the present and away from her ring. “And you delve further into their meaning, it's totally about date rape.”

Derek furrowed his brow in confusion before focusing on the song playing overhead. It wasn't long before he recognized the familiar tune of “Baby It's Cold Outside”, a cover featuring that chick from Frozen and some adult contemporary male he couldn't quite place.

The Banshee pursed her lips in distaste as she pointed upwards, the rest of her fingers curved around a glass of red wine. “See?” she questioned, indicating the song. “The female clearly just sang 'what's in this drink?' And we're expected to believe it's a romantic duet about the male being so enraptured with his love that he doesn't want her to go home? Or that it's some sort of female empowerment anthem because she agrees to spend the night with him, despite the blow to her reputation that she'd suffer when the neighbors find out?” She snorted delicately, rolling her eyes as she brought her glass to her lips. “I don't think so.” She paused to sip, licking her lips when she was done. “I can't believe your mom actually plays this song.”

“Me and Laur tried explaining that to her, but she wouldn't listen,” he explained, glancing around the room before focusing on his friend. “But Laura had the idiotic idea to add 'and no more Taylor Swift Christmas songs either' when we brought that to her attention and—” He shrugged a shoulder, the cotton of his black button down rustling with the motion. “Mom gets really defensive about Taylor Swift and starting singing that 'haters gonna hate' song as she danced around the kitchen. Pretty sure she just tuned us out after that.”

Lydia stared up at him wide-eyed and open mouthed before choking out a laugh in disbelief and turning elsewhere. “Wow,” she said in awe, shaking her head slightly. “Your mom is a Swiftie.”

“Die hard,” he muttered before drinking, remembering coming home on several occasions to find her belting out various tunes by the country-turned-pop star, even stumbling upon Stiles joining in a few times. Scott was a part of the sing-along on one instance, warbling a rendition of “You Belong With Me” that would've been better crooned by one of the dying animals he treated at the vet clinic he worked at.

As if on cue, Swift's rendition of “Santa Baby” started playing over the speakers, his—very pregnant—older sister loudly declaring she was gonna throw up before waddling her way toward the bathroom, Argent on her heels muttering apologies to everyone she bowled over—including a canoodling Liam and Brett.

Allison made her way over then, dimpled smile on her face as she giggled to herself, dark eyes sparkling in amusement. “Pretty sure your sister's faking it,” she stated after stopping on Derek's left, putting him in the middle of a female sandwich. “She's in her third trimester and just this morning she was discussing how relieved she was to be over that whole 'morning sickness bullshit'—” she said using air-quotes. “—just in time for the holidays.”

“Oh, I know she is,” Derek pointed out, saluting in Laura's direction with his glass. “She just really hates Taylor Swift. It's another on-going battle between her and my mom.”

The brunette laughed more, hand flying up to cover her mouth, putting her wedding ring on display. After her year in Paris was up, she and Scott had gotten back together, being both Mated and married soon after, much to Scott's mom's chagrin, Melissa believing they were both too young. But the whole thing had ended in tears of joy and Stilinski lending a comforting shoulder, which then led to jokes about how the sheriff would soon be in her shoes. Stiles had spent a good majority of the reception either dancing like an idiot or trying to convince Derek it was customary for the groomsmen to hook up.

It wasn't, but they still wound up fooling around in a broom closet.

The Werewolf's eyes flicked down to the stomach of his...step-niece...? He wasn't never sure of the right terms with her. But no matter what, she was family, and now, so was Scott, through a whole bunch of marriages and Matings and complicated red strings that Stiles kept trying to verbally put together in order to explain how he and Scott were gonna be related one day, only to give up and decide he was just gonna try once more to hook their parents up.

“So,” he began, lowering his glass to his side. “When are you gonna pop—” He cut himself off before using the Werewolf slang term in case he offended her, clearing his throat and redirecting his words. “—have kids?” An awkward smile played on his lips as he drank, Lydia snorting on his right and rolling her eyes.

Sweet, gracious Allison just smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Scott and I aren't planning on popping out any pups any time soon,” she answered, jokingly using the term he'd almost blurt out by mistake, saying it with a gentle mocking tone that showed she wasn't offended or incensed by him using it.

He sometimes forgot how some people in the world were at ease with Supes and their own language and that Allison was one of the good ones. Which was easy to forget about how sweet and open she was when the rest of her family didn't share her point-of-view.

Thank god her father wasn't the same way. He'd hate to think his possible-Werewolf nephew would be born to a bigoted asshole.

“Speaking of Scott,” Allison started, brow furrowing, the scent of worry rolling off her and overpowering her lemony scent. “Have you heard from him or Stiles lately?”

Now that it had been mentioned...

Derek slid his phone out of his pocket, checking his recent messages and feeling a frown of his own form. “Last I heard they were ten minutes away and that was. Half an hour ago.”

Shit. Not good.

The female's anxiety ratcheted up, causing his own to spike. It wasn't like Stiles not to keep in contact, not like him not to send countless texts counting down the minutes until the two of them were reunited, something that both drove the Werewolf insane and made him smile so big his face hurt.

“They're fine,” Lydia interrupted, shrugging nonchalantly. “My Banshee powers aren't tingling so it's all right.”

Derek wished he could roll his eyes at her usage of Stiles' term for what she did, but his mind was too busy rolling over what exactly it was that she did and what the hell could've happened to his Mate.

No. Everything was fine. Lydia was right.

“Which means they aren't dead,” Allison pointed out, voice wavering. She wrapped her arms around herself, leather jacket creaking, the fabric of her silk dress swishing about her nylon covered hips. “But that doesn't mean they're okay.”

“They're fine,” the Werewolf agreed with the Banshee, wrapping an arm around the human's shoulders. “I'd be able to tell if something bad happened.”

And it was true. His mind flashed back to Stiles' accident over five years ago, how he'd felt a pulling in his chest and an overwhelming sensation of something being completely and totally wrong. His anxiety had been a thousand times worse that day than it was at that moment and he was more disoriented and worried than annoyed and impatient like he was currently feeling.

His step-niece sighed shakily, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, worry creasing the skin between her brows. Her anxiety was still a rancid scent in his nose and he slipped his hand down to rub her upper arm in a manner he hoped was soothing.

“Seriously, they're okay,” he assured her. “Knowing them, they stopped for burritos or curly fries or some other crap and just didn't tell anyone. You know how airheaded they can both be.” He smirked down at her, amusement coloring his words.

Allison let out another sigh, this one short and more easygoing, a dimple forming in her cheek as one side of her lips pulled up. “This is true,” she conceded, anxiety leaving her scent. “The two of them probably just got caught up talking about some video game or the latest Marvel movie or something.”

The Werewolf snorted. “'Cause Stiles hasn't rambled about that enough,” he muttered before finishing off his drink and looking around for a place nearby to set his empty glass down. Nothing.

She and Lydia launched into a conversation of their own over their Mates mutual love of action movies and their own inability to understand the appeal of explosions and scantily clad women. Derek tuned out when it became apparent that it was becoming a discussion on sexism in Hollywood, not about to become involved with two females railing against male-oriented movies—especially not when one of those females was Lydia Martin, Queen of Arguing Anyone Else Into the Ground. Instead, he glanced around the room, taking in all the guests.

Liam and Brett had moved their snuggle session to a nearby armchair, their human friend Mason sitting on the ottoman across from them and saying something that made Liam laugh loudly. Kira and Malia were in a corner engaging in an activity that usually featured mistletoe hanging from above—and not nearly as heatedly as they were behaving. Laura and Chris were back from the bathroom, she discussing wildly—and loudly—with their mom over her song choice. Derek could make out the words “I'm pregnant!” from reading his sister's lips—her usual argument in recent times for getting her way—their mom replying with her usual “haters gonna hate”. Cora and Erica were downing shots, Boyd standing stoically—and somehow still looking disapproving—to the side, white twinkle lights flashing off his wedding band as he smeared his hand over his face roughly. Parrish, Stilinski, and Derek's dad were deep in discussion over what Derek assumed was fishing, judging by the game of charades the older two were enacting. And Lahey was leaning back against a wall, smiling coyly at Jackson as the younger Werewolf tilted in close, eyes constantly flicking down to the elder's lips as they flirted pretty heavily.

Well that was intriguing.

He knew Lahey had dated his sister for a while, only for them to split on good terms when they realized they were both on different pages—mainly the fact that Cora was asexual and Lahey wasn't—but they remained good friends. And now the deputy was off flirting with Jackson Whittemore. Definitely interesting.

From what he understood, after a long talk with Allison over their Christmas holiday two years ago—and several more similar convos over the next fifteen months or so—Jackson came home to Beacon Hills, something else that had caused a long flailing ramble over Skype by Stiles. But from what Derek had been told, Jackson had become a completely different guy, was more friendly and open, had forgiven his parents for not telling him he was adopted and instead became more grateful for the fact that they did so. Scott wasn't too thrilled by his presence—mainly due to his wolf not liking the fact that Jackson had been around its Mate when they were apart—but they'd settled their own issues and were close friends.

Not as close as Jackson and Lahey apparently were.

He'd have to tell Parrish about that, if the other deputy wasn't already aware. Gossip spread through the station pretty fast, especially on slow days, and that was definitely something Derek thought should be out there. If for no other reason than so he'd have someone to back him up when he picked on Lahey for it.

Raising his glass, he tried to hide his smirk by drinking, only to remember he was out. He excused himself from the two females, slipping away unnoticed as Lydia started in on Tomb Raider and Angelina Jolie. The entrance to the kitchen through the living room was stuck behind a throng of people and he didn't feel like trying to weave his way through everyone, choosing instead to take the less populated route through the main hallway, into the dining room, then the kitchen.

Only to get sidetracked.

Because stepping out into the hall meant the music was quieter, allowing him to hear sounds outside much easier. Because a beat-up Honda was making its way closer and parking on the front lawn with all the other vehicles. Because only one floppy haired dimwit in Derek's life had a mom who drove a car like that and had borrowed it to drive to San Fran.

He was barely aware of putting the squat glass he still held on a nearby table, wolf howling inside his head, heart pounding inside his chest. The engine was killed, doors opening, laughter filling the air outside, laughter he hadn't heard in person for what felt like forever but was really only about a month. Still, seconds apart were like hours and Derek honestly felt like they'd spent a lifetime away from each other. He had no idea how in the hell he'd managed to survive three years without Stiles. Maybe it just felt worse because he'd been counting down to a reunion that always seemed so far away, when before it was nothing but an infinite space without his Mate ever coming home.

Whatever. Didn't matter. What did matter was that Stiles was officially home and in Beacon Hills and Derek was throwing open the front door before racing across the porch and down the steps.

Stiles had barely managed to round the back of the car, a smile beginning to form on his face as his whiskey eyes connected with green ones, before the Werewolf collided with him, wrapping his arms around his Mate and holding him close. The embrace was instantly returned, the Kitsune burying his nose in the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply.

“Der,” he breathed out, the word barely a whisper above their racing hearts and the din of a Mariah Carey song drifting out through the still open door. But the sound of it live, in person, without the static of a phone line or the digitization of a webcam, it caused the elder male to shiver all over before damn near collapsing in relief. Stiles was fine, was okay, was in his arms and against his body, was in his nose and in his eyesight.

Was home.

Derek had his Mate in his bed and his taste in his mouth and... everything just felt right.

The two had stayed at the party for about two hours, Stiles chatting with everyone and catching up, Derek clinging to him like a limpet and inhaling his scent at every opportunity. But if the smaller male cared, he didn't show it, instead sneaking smiles at the elder male and scenting him right back. A few times they had snuck off to another room together in not-so-sneaky fashions, barely able to keep it PG around party guests, making out and groping and dry humping like horny teenagers in the bathroom. And the pantry. And Derek's old bedroom. And the back deck. And the bathroom again before Laura burst in and threatened to spew all over them if they didn't get their hormones and their scents under control.

They'd left pretty soon after that.

The drive to the loft had felt twice as long—although that might've been due to the fact that they made out at every red light and stop sign, barely able to contain themselves until they got home. Derek had been hard and aching pretty much since Stiles had arrived, his wolf realizing that its Mate was home and what that meant mating-wise. And with the younger man smelling of other people, the Werewolf had been dying to wipe it all away and cover him with his own scent, to re-mark his territory as Stiles had so eloquently put it back when they'd first begun dating and he'd come home from school smelling like classmates and the boys locker room.

Stiles hadn't helped anything by being a tease all night with not-so-subtle brushes of his hand against Derek's crotch, his ass rubbing against his Mate's front whenever possible, whispers of how great reunion sex was and how hard his own cock was rasping against the older man's ear whenever no one was paying them any attention. It had taken every ounce of self-control Derek had to not mount his Mate in the middle of his family's home, especially when Stiles commented on how bummed he was that the Werewolf's old room was now a guest room and how that meant he couldn't live out a fantasy of debauching his Mate's childhood bedroom.

Growls over Stiles' room still being exactly the same had rumbled out of Derek's mouth before he'd shoved a hand down the front of the younger man's khakis and wrapped a hand around his hard length, only to groan when he realized his Mate had gone without underwear.

“Jus' gon' get in th'way la'er,” Stiles had slurred, drunk with arousal, smooth cheek rubbing against Derek's whiskered one.

The elevator ride had been spent making out furiously, hands roaming, shirts being shoved up, Derek nearly losing his completely before he remembered where they were. Knowing his luck, Parrish would've been the one to find his missing top and would use it to rib him for weeks.

Didn't stop Stiles from completely unbuttoning it and leaving it hanging open as his hands spanned the Werewolf's muscled torso.

But they finally made it to his loft, Stiles carefully setting down his duffel by the door as Derek slid it shut before they were all over each other once again. Clothes had been shed on the way to the bed, the Kitsune nearly toppling over while struggling to remove his socks, being caught by a chuckling Mate who'd solved his issues by slinging him over his shoulder and carrying him the rest of the way. His khakis had been quickly shed, along with Derek's briefs, and the two had reconnected their lips in another frenzied make out session, hands now roaming naked bodies, cocks slick with precome sliding together.

It wasn't long before Derek had Stiles flipped onto his stomach, not wasting any time before spreading his Mate's cheeks and diving in. The Kitsune groaned loudly, head thrashing about on the pillow, hands wringing at the sheets. He moved onto his knees, chest still pressed to the mattress, hips trying to flex back, fighting against Derek's grip on him. Shudders wracked his frame, moan-tinged swears falling from his lips in a stream of nonsense as the Werewolf ate at him like a starved man.

Derek wrapped his hand around his cock and held on tight, staving off his own orgasm. Rimming Stiles was one of his favorite activities and he was giving it everything he had. He sucked at his hole, nipped the sensitive pucker, slipped his tongue inside and lapped at him, loosening the rim as he slicked it up with his saliva.

“Oh, je—fu—Der,” Stiles stuttered, breath leaving him on a shaky groan, back arching up before bowing down again. “Oh God, just fuck me, fuck!”

Derek pulled off with one last kiss to the pucker, giving it a final kitten lick before fully lifting his head. “I was actually thinking,” he began then paused, massaging his Mate's cheeks.

“Dang'rous,” the younger man slurred, peering down at him with a smirk, face smooshed on a pillow. His pillow. Because Stiles couldn't sleep without it and it was now permanently residing in Derek's—in their loft on their bed.

He smacked his ass before spreading his cheeks apart, thumbs rubbing at his rim and making him gasp and close his eyes. “I was thinking maybe,” he tried again, swallowing hard. Because he had no idea how to ask for what he wanted, what his Mate's reaction would be. Sure, they'd talked about it in a theoretical sense, a hypothetical, a random thought blurted out during sex or knotting, but never in a more serious manner where real plans could be made.

But Derek had been thinking about it in a serious manner, had made plans of his own for it. He had no clue if Stiles would be for it or not, if he wanted to try it, if he was more set on keeping their dynamics the way they were, if he was open for something different. And Derek himself wasn't one-hundred percent sure how he felt about it. The idea in theory was great and he'd jerked off to the fantasy more than once. But his wolf wasn't all that keen on being submissive to anyone, especially when it came to something so intimate and so personal.

Yet all he could think about was how much he trusted Stiles and how there was no way he could do it with anyone else—anatomy not withstanding. Sure, it wasn't easy to get there. They'd gone through a major rough patch when they'd first gotten back together, Derek still not entirely sure if he could really believe the younger male wasn't going anywhere. He'd picked arguments over stupid shit, started fights for no real reason, until Stiles finally snapped back that he wasn't going anywhere so he needed to stop trying to push him away and just deal with the fact that he was stuck with him for good.

Things had calmed down considerably after that and Derek had finally allowed Stiles to earn back the trust he'd lost when he'd ran.

And with that trust came the belief that Stiles would never do anything to hurt Derek, not again, and that the Werewolf had nothing to worry about when it came to what he wanted at that moment.

Swallowing hard, he tried to voice his desires for a third time, voice thick and shaky, yet somehow still sure and composed. “I was thinking maybe you could. Knot. Me.”

Stiles froze all over, eyes shooting wide open, inhaling sharply. He moved so fast Derek couldn't even see it until the Kitsune was settled on his knees by the pillows, staring at the older man with wide eyes and a slack jaw. “You're,” he choked out, shaking a finger at his Mate as he made like a goldfish for a long moment. “You're. You're serious.”

Derek pushed himself up to a sitting position, folding his legs in front of himself, scratching his jaw. “Yeeeeah,” he stretched the word out, wincing slightly. “Just. Thought it'd be a cool extra Christmas gift or something.”

His actual gift for his Mate was a Lego Marvel video game and a signed lithograph from “Return of the Jedi”—which Stiles was crazy enough to believe was the best Star Wars movie, an ongoing debate between the two of them—but this was something extra, something special, a lot like when Stiles was offering up his virginity to Derek as a gift. Because no one else would ever get this, be able to do this, to not only be the first—and only—person to knot him, but the first—and only—person ever to top him.

Between one breath and the next, Derek found himself on his back, Stiles pinning him down by his wrists, lips pressed against his in a bruising kiss. His eyes widened, surprise freezing him momentarily before he returned the kiss, hips bucking up against the ones rolling down onto him.

Stiles pulled away with a pop, panting wildly, eyes a steady orange glow as they flicked back and forth between Derek's. “You have no idea how long I've been wanting to knot you,” he confessed, voice a husky rumble that made the Werewolf's cock twitch, fresh bead of precome spurting out. “Pretty much since you mentioned it a couple years ago.”

The corner of the older man's lips curved up in a smirk, head leaning up to rub his nose against his Mate's. “That's how long I've been wanting you to do it, too.”

The Kitsune's eyes faded to their usual whiskey hue, crinkling at the corners as he grinned in amusement, trying to hold back a laugh. But he failed, a chuckle snorting past and his head ducking down, forehead pressing to Derek's sternum. “Seriously, our communication sucks,” he commented, finding more humor in it than annoyance.

Derek chuckled right back, freeing his hands and wrapping his arms around the leaner male's torso. “I like to think we've gotten better at it though,” he stated, lips pressed to soft tawny locks, inhaling his Mate's scent with every breath.

Stiles nodded against his chest before pressing his lips to it, trailing open-mouth kisses all over his bare pecs, hands roaming up and down his sides. “Much better,” he murmured, lips grazing over bare skin as he spoke lowly. He began moving downwards, lips still pressing against his Mate's torso. An open mouth kiss here, a nip there, tongue trailing lines between abs and the V between his torso and hips.

The Werewolf spread his legs to accommodate him, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he peered down at the younger male, watching with rapt attention. Stiles going down on him was still one of the hottest sights ever and was an image he frequently pulled up during nights alone when his Mate was living across the country and he was feeling lonely. And this time was no different, with the Kitsune running his nose along his cock before nuzzling it just under his balls, inhaling deep and groaning.

“Fuck you smell good,” he moaned, fingers digging into the larger male's hips in a bruising grip, his own hips rolling against the mattress. He nosed all over his Mate's crotch, scenting him in a place where it was most pure, with the arousing additions of musk and sex mixed in. Derek knew how intoxicating that blend was, loved spending his own sweet time inhaling it from Stiles' most private and personal areas, regardless of how impatient his Mate became for him to “just fucking get on with it”.

And now that the shoe was on the other foot—or nose in the other crotch, so to speak—Derek fully understood the annoyance and the desire to “just fucking get on with it”, because it was killing him. Stiles was right there and his cock was twitching and aching and his hole felt like it was fluttering and pulsing in anticipation.

He whimpered out his Mate's name, peering down with begging, half-lidded eyes, fingers sliding into tawny locks. A smirk was the younger man's response before lifting his head and wrapping his lips around the head of Derek's cock, slipping the hard length in his mouth.

Derek's head tilted back on a moan, hips trying to buck up, only to be held still by his partner's hands. He flashed back to the first time Stiles had ever blown him, how his own willpower and strength had to be used in order not to buck his hips and choke his Mate, how the then-human was too weak to hold him down or pin him for too long. But now they were equally matched, the Kitsune able to keep him still, keep him subdued, make him submit.

And, fuck, if it wasn't hot as hell.

Stiles pressed down until the tip tapped the back of his throat, then pulled back up, releasing him. He licked the hard length all over, coating it, tongue flicking teasingly in the slit before he swallowed him down once again. Derek could do nothing but moan, fingers tightening their grip on his hair, other hand grasping at a bare shoulder. His mouth was so wet, so warm, the suction just perfect, tongue rolling and massaging against all the right places. His wolf was loving it, too, loving the knowledge that it was inside its Mate once again—albeit not in the more traditional way but still—loving that it was claiming him once more, leaving its mark and its scent on its territory.

A slick finger rubbed at his hole, massaging the tight pucker but not pressing. Derek forced himself to relax, despite a particularly hard suck causing his every muscle to tense up in pleasure. He cocked a knee, foot planted firmly on the mattress, giving the other man easier access. Stiles' head bobbed up and down his length, sucking and licking, all the while his finger just rubbed and pressed but never slipped inside. It was maddening really, the way it felt as though he was purposely being played with, tormented, teased to such a degree he was ready to claw something.

But then, finally then, the tip of his finger slipped past the tight ring.

The Werewolf let out a groan as he felt the digit enter him, as the finger was crooked and it tugged at his entrance, stretching it. It wasn't anything all that new, Derek having experimented with fingering himself, managing to get a couple inside. But at the same time, it was completely novel. Because Stiles' fingers were longer, slimmer, because the angle wasn't quite the same, because the touch came with the added sensation of his cock being sucked and his balls being massaged and his Mate sending vibrations throughout him as he moaned around the hard length.

It was new, it was different, it was better.

There wasn't any fooling around, wasn't any teasing, wasn't any prolonging it. Stiles worked quickly and efficiently, soon spreading four fingers inside of Derek and massaging his walls, avoiding that one spot that always made the Kitsune cry out and flail more than usual. He wasn't sure if he was glad for it—since the entire thing was intense enough with adding that in to the mix—or pissed that his prostate wasn't being played with the way he did for his Mate, but whatever the case, he was still left a moaning, shaking mess, his breathing erratic and heart pounding in his own ears as he growled at Stiles to “just fuckin' get on with it!”

His words seemed to work, fingers slipping out and leaving him empty, gaping, quivering. His teeth sank into his bottom lip as he watched his Mate sit up, hands rubbing soothingly at his inner thighs.

“Not too late to back out,” Stiles stated, voice rough from arousal and from having Derek's dick tapping the back of his throat repeatedly.

Derek shook his head adamantly, swallowing hard before pulling his legs up to his chest, holding onto his knees. “I want this, want you.”

The younger man's eyes flashed orange before he nodded, licking his lips. Reaching down, he wrapped a hand around his slicked up cock, lining it up and with a quick glance at the elder man, he pressed inside.

A loud, drawn out groan hit the Werewolf's ears, a broken sound, nearly a wail as the person cried out in pleasure, and it took him a moment to realize he'd made it. Because his Mate was staring down at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, a choked gasp forcing its way out his throat, seemingly incapable of making any other sort of noise. Was a pretty rare occasion when Stiles Stilinski was rendered speechless and Derek felt his wolf preen a little at the knowledge that it was part of the reason why.

Stiles didn't stop until he was fully inside, until his balls were pressed up against Derek's ass, until there was no way the two of them could be any more connected, then he collapsed on top of his Mate. Derek choked out a couple exhales, the air forced out as though there was no more room inside him for it to remain. He wrapped his legs around the leaner male, hands grasping at his bare shoulders, already slick with sweat. Stiles propped himself up with his forearms on either side of the elder man's head, holding still for the time being, allowing Derek to get used to the invasion.

Because it was an invasion, his body now containing something it hadn't before, but in the most intense and pleasurable ways. He understood why Stiles enjoyed it so much, why he loved having his Mate fill him. Because Derek could feel his Mate pulsing and twitching inside an incredibly intimate area. Because he felt safe and secure with the other man draped over him that way. Because he felt like a metaphorical hole had been filled when a literal one had been. Because it was all about the two of them reestablishing that connection and bringing themselves closer together than they thought were possible.

The stretch burned and his body trembled from it, from the unfamiliar sensation of having something inside him. A whimper left him, a whine, then lips pressed against his, a kiss to take his mind off everything and relax him. And it worked, Derek's mind flooded with the taste of his Mate in his mouth, with a tongue massaging against his own, with the shivers induced when certain areas of his palate were flicked against.

Soon, the dull pain and strange sensations faded away and Derek pulled away with a nod, swallowing hard before licking his lips. “Ready,” he whispered, green eyes meeting whiskey ones.

Stiles kissed his lips then his nose before sliding out to the head. The Werewolf gasped at the tug on his rim before groaning as he was filled up again, head tilting back. The opportunity was taken, the younger man connecting his lips to a stretched neck, nipping at newly exposed skin as he thrust in slow, yet slightly clumsy motions.

Derek breathed shakily as he tried to buck his hips in rhythm, only to find he couldn't move all that well, choosing to instead lay there and take it. The entire thing was so surreal, to be experiencing the same act but in reverse, to be the one who was filled instead of doing the filling. He still preferred their usual way of doing things, but fuck, this was still amazing, still incredible, and knowing that his Mate was feeling the same pleasure made it a million times better.

The thrusts soon sped up, the actions still sloppy, making it obvious that it was Stiles' first time doing this. Derek groaned at the knowledge that he was taking yet another one of his Mate's virginities, that he was the first—and only—one to be able to be with him in that way. There was just something so primitively arousing about it and he found his eyes flashing to their wolf vision.

A swear was breathed out from between the younger man's lips, his own eyes flashing in response before he began pounding away with little to no finesse. Not that Derek could blame him. He was the same way at times, when he got carried away with the pleasure of it all and more focused on making Stiles' come than any sort of rhythm or skill. His hands wrapped around the Kitsune's biceps, feeling the heated skin under his sweaty palms, noted how steam was rising off his shoulders. He gasped out a swear of his own, absently reaching over to touch the wisps of heated air, almost saddened when he came away feeling nothing but warmth.

A tugging was felt at his rim, the stretch increasing with each thrust, a pulsing joining in with it. Stiles' knot. The realization caused his fangs to descend, eyes flicking back to his wolf ones, claws digging into his Mate's shoulders. He felt a prick on his own, a growl leaving the younger man with it.

“Gon' knot you,” he warned in a breathy voice, tips of his fangs poking out from between his lips. “Fuck, gonna knot you so bad.”

Derek moaned loudly, squeezing his inner-muscles in invitation, dying to feel himself being stretched further, being tied to his Mate, being filled with his come and his essence. Only to realize...

“No!” he objected, head popping up off the mattress, eyes widening as far as they could go. “Not like this.”

Stiles froze immediately upon his objection, his own eyes shooting open, staring down at him with parted lips. His scent shifted from arousal and pleasure and joy to confusion and worry and concern, like he believed he'd done something wrong and the Werewolf was putting a stop to the whole thing.

The older man swallowed hard, panting through his mouth as he collected his thoughts, as he kept his own scent calm and even so as not to worry his Mate. He'd found that keeping himself relaxed and at ease actually helped Stiles when he was worrying himself into a panic and/or anxiety attack, that his serene scent soothed the worrying Kitsune and allowed him to chill out. Granted it only really worked in person, which left Derek sputtering and struggling in order to come up with the right words as Stiles railed on about this test or that paper or “Oh God, Noshiko's gonna kill me for setting fire to” whatever object of the month it was.

He'd eventually calm the younger man down, but it was a real test of his own communication skills. Or lack thereof really. There was a reason why Parrish was usually the one sent to deal with traumatized vics while Derek handled the perps.

Rubbing at his Mate's arms, he put a small smile on his face, meeting his gaze. “We can't knot in this position,” he clarified, wiggling a leg for emphasis. “Remember when we tried to do that and you complained about your foot falling asleep after about five minutes?”

The Kitsune's eyes narrowed and lips pursed as he thought about it before he breathed out a laugh and smirked. “Yeah, and you were shaking from trying to hold yourself up and not crush me,” he added on in an amused tone.

“Exactly.” Memories of that day hit him, remembering Stiles' first trip back to Beacon Hills after they'd gotten together, how they were too desperate in their attempts to get together and Derek had been too eager to knot his Mate that neither had given a thought to the position they were in when it happened. A few awkward and painful shifts later, and Derek had wound up on his back with Stiles sprawled across him, knot still lodged inside him. Which worked then, since the Werewolf was broader and could handle the leaner male laying on him. He didn't think it would work all that well in reverse.

“Maybe I should flip onto my stomach?” he offered with a shrug, knowing that back-to-front worked best for knotting.

Stiles didn't seem too keen on the idea though, given the fact that his face scrunched up and his scent turned salty with upset. “I wanna see your face though,” he murmured, lowering his head to rub their noses together.

Shit. Definitely didn't help there. He wracked his brain trying to think of any other options, becoming distracted when Stiles pulled out and made him gasp.

“On your side,” he suggested, slapping the older man's hip as he rose onto his knees.

Derek cocked an eyebrow only to mentally shrug it off and do as he was told, once again giving in to his Mate's whims. A few positional shifts later and he found himself laying on his left side with Stiles straddling his leg, right one tucked in close to his body, a hard cock pressing at his entrance once more.

“God, I love this one,” Stiles commented with a groan as he slid in, head tilting back. “Go so deep.”

The Werewolf moaned as his Mate did just that, his own hand shooting out to tangle in the loosened sheet, claws ripping at the fabric by mistake. The position had been one the younger man had discovered while watching porn—a fact that didn't shock Derek in the slightest—and he'd wanted to try it, soon becoming a fave of them both. Because Derek could go deep—just as Stiles had commented—and Stiles could be filled more and it was an easy thing to shift into a spooning position when his knot was tying them together.

The thrusts started out slow, but soon gathered speed and strength behind them. Stiles' fists rested on either side of Derek's body as he leaned over him for better leverage, hips pistoning in and out, back and forth. The older man wrapped his hand around his Mate's wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his pale skin, feeling the strength in taut forearm muscles, feeling the near burning temperature of his Kasai nature.

“Close again,” the Kitsune breathed out through a groan, head hanging, sweat dripping off his forehead onto Derek's skin. His knot was growing once more, becoming bigger, tugging at his rim more insistently with each pull out.

Derek could only nod, his own knot inflating, rubbing against the sheet as Stiles' every thrust rocked his body. His free hand slid down and wrapped around the gland, massaging it as it fully expanded. “Shit, Stiles,” he gasped, squeezing his knot and his inner-walls, trying desperately to keep his Mate's knot inside of him. “Oh fuck, knot me, knot me, knot me.”

A growl came from above as Stiles thrust inside hard and stayed there, knot fully expanded. He damn near collapsed on top of the Werewolf with a harsh gasp, scent exploding with a thousand emotions. “Oh my god!” he practically yelled, panting harshly against a bare bicep. “Oh shit, no wonder you love this.”

He chuckled, the sound turning into a moan as the laugh made his body shake and the knot inside him to rub against his prostate. And Jesus fucking Christ, how fucking amazing was that? Sparks of pleasure shot all over, his eyes switching to his wolf vision and staying that way. He was dimly aware of his claws digging into Stiles' wrist, of his fangs hanging down behind his parted lips, of completely losing control of his humanity. He was an animal, being mated and tied to like an animal, and fuck. It was a feeling of euphoria only ever experienced when knotting his Mate, when fully shifted and running with his Pack under a full moon, when giving in to his true nature and no longer hiding what he was.

Stiles ground his hips in a slow roll, massaging the bundle of nerves, forehead pressed to Derek's shoulder as he lost the strength to hold up his head. He muttered nonsense words and swears between pants, between praises, between comments of how good it felt, how amazing, how much he wanted his Mate to come.

And Derek, still unable to deny Stiles anything, did just that.

He exploded all over his torso, his leg, his sheets. He saw stars, waves crashing, volcanoes exploding. He felt pleasure rush through every inch of his body, curling his toes, tightening his fingers, squeezing his hole. And like the ripple effect it always was, one orgasm caused the other's, Stiles filling him up. He was vaguely aware of teeth digging into the round of his shoulder, of come pulsing inside his passage, of a trembling frame pressing along his side, of steam rolling off the Kitsune's skin and making the air thick with humidity and heat.

Neither moved for a long time, both shaking, both grasping onto one another desperately as they slowly came back down to earth. Stiles was the first to recover, gusting out a laugh against Derek's sweaty bicep, body shaking with it.

“Glad those aren't my sheets,” he chuckled, smirked pressed against flesh.

The Werewolf tried to scowl, reaching up to bat at his Mate as he fought off an amused smirk, post-orgasm high making it difficult to really be annoyed. “Shuddup,” he slurred, eyelids too heavy to hold open.

Another breath of laughter was the younger man's response before he carefully shifted around, cuddling into the broader male from behind, one of his legs slung over one of Derek's. He nuzzled into the back of his neck, a satisfied rumble vibrating against the older man's back as he inhaled his scent. Wrapping his arm around him, he placed his hand over Derek's heart, the Werewolf tangling their fingers together.

He knew he should stay awake and enjoy the bliss, knew he should catch up with his Mate and everything that was happening in his life, knew he should help them both ride out the minor orgasms they'd both be experiencing over the next twenty minutes or so as they remained tied together, but he was feeling far too satisfied and happy and at peace with life. Safe inside his Mate's arms, he drifted off to sleep with the feel of his knot fitted snugly inside and his heart beating a pleasing rhythm against his back.

Derek had no clue what time it was when he woke up. Middle of the night-slash-early morning he figured, judging by the fact that it was still dark outside. He let the thought go when he realized he was alone in bed, that he no longer had Stiles pressed up against his back or inside him. Squeezing his rim, he noted a lack of pain and stretch, his healing having kicked in while he slept. He also noted a lack of mess inside of him, figuring Stiles must've cleaned him up while he was out.

He'd shifted onto his stomach at some point, head cradled on an arm. Opening his eyes, he realized he was still laying with his head by the foot of the bed, facing towards the main area of the loft. Completely fine with him, considering what he opened his eyes to.

The white Christmas lights decorating his loft had been switched on: bulbs attached to thick garland wrapped around the railing of the iron spiral stairs that led to the skylight, fairy lights wrapped around support beams as high as his borrowed ladder could go, white bulbs casting a soft glow from the Christmas tree standing tall and proud in front of the huge bank of windows. A fabric poinsettia sat on the coffee table—a gift from Scott and Allison—two stockings hung off the kitchen's breakfast bar, adorning each of their names, Stiles having bought them the year before—along with glitter glue—and declaring they were gonna decorate a stocking for the other person. Derek had meticulously created a dozen or so snowflakes with the silver, all different sizes and shapes, along with a red and orange heart, while Stiles had created what he claimed was a Werewolf snowman, surrounded by countless hearts that Parrish smirked at him for.

The soft sounds of a choir singing “Silent Night” filled the loft, coming from the iPod dock on the coffee table, sounding a lot like the version that played at the end of A Christmas Story. Derek was overcome with a desire to cuddle with Stiles on an armchair, drinking wine as they watched the snow fall outside the window, no lights but the soft glow of the Christmas tree.

His Mate stood in front of the tree, still naked, a far cry from the self-conscious teenager who tried to cover himself up at all times and preferred remaining clothed while they fooled around, arms folded over his chest in a casual manner. A small smile curved up the corner of his lips, lights reflecting off his dark eyes as they roamed the tree, taking in the various decorations they'd purchased together the year before. Hell, everything had been bought the year before—except for the tree, which Derek had had to pick out with Lydia that year since Stiles was still stuck in New York—Stiles deciding that Derek needed to undrab his loft for the holidays and Derek going along with what his Mate wanted. He also agreed with the sentiment that he needed something to show it was a festive season and since he no longer hated the big holiday that captured damn near everyone's attention, he figured he could go along with his partner buying some things for the loft.

He drew the line at the inflatable Darth Vader with a Santa hat thought. Stiles just glared and threatened it would be in the loft next year.

A quick glance around show a lack of Star Wars themed decor—minus the Millenium Falcon ornament on the tree—and he felt his lips curve up slightly at the fact that he was still winning that ongoing battle.

“I know you're awake, Creeper Wolf,” Stiles stated with a small smirk, still focused on the tree. “Quit staring.”

Derek snorted as he rolled onto his back, stretching tight joints and aching muscles before getting off the bed. He smeared his hand over his face repeatedly as he padded over to his Mate, standing behind him and wrapping his arms around his torso. Stiles didn't hesitate to cover his hands, smile growing, scent warm and pleased.

“Was enjoying the view,” he commented, voice rough from sleep and previous activities, then pressed his lips to his bare shoulder.

The Kitsune snorted, body rocking with the noise. “Cliché,” he criticized, snuggling back into his Mate, eyes still taking in the tree before him. “Still can't believe you didn't have any of this last year.”

The Werewolf shrugged, playing it off. “Christmas didn't exactly bring back any good memories anymore,” he confessed lowly, lips still pressed to his shoulder. He felt the younger man tense up beneath him, scented his remorse and regret, understanding the implication that it was his fault that Derek wasn't a big fan of the holidays. But the older man wasn't having any of that, rubbing their cheeks together before nuzzling his ear. “But now I have nothing but good ones. So quit freaking out.” He smacked his Mate's hip for emphasis, relishing the gasp then the annoyed grumble he got in response.

“Well,” Stiles began then paused, fiddling with Derek's fingers. The Werewolf recognized it as a sign that the younger man was nervous, a tic he had when his anxiety was getting the best of him. His scent shifted to something more worried and the deputy rubbed their cheeks together in an attempt to soothe him.

It seemed to work, at least a little, the Kitsune swallowing hard before continuing. “What if we made more good memories?”

Derek couldn't help the smirk that formed on his face, pressing it to a cluster of moles. “You mean, other than last night?” The younger man's arousal flared to life, his scent exploding in the Werewolf's nose and making him groan. His hand was slapped in retaliation, making him chuckle.

“No,” he argued before see-sawing his head. “Kinda. I meant.” He paused and huffed before pulling away and stepping over to the tree, crouching down before it.

The deputy watched with a cocked eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest as he peered around his Mate's form to try and see what he was doing. He'd placed presents for his family under there, having already delivered others to co-workers and friends, but he noticed a few more there that had been decorated in a different wrapping paper—as well as wrapped sloppily and with far too much tape, Stiles' usual habit when it came to wrapping gifts.

But Stiles bypassed all of them, instead grabbing something from behind the packages. He rose to his feet and turned around, eyes locked on what he held between his hands, exhaling shakily. A cherry wooden box with no paper, no bows, no decorations of any sorts, just scratched varnish, about a foot wide and eight inches tall. Without a word, he slipped past Derek and made his way to the couch, sinking down on the middle cushion, box now on his lap but still held between his hands.

“Do you remember what I told you about a Kitsune's tails?” he questioned, finally raising his eyes to his Mate.

Derek nodded, confused frown on his face, wondering where exactly the convo was going. “Yeah,” he replied, scratching at his jaw before gesturing to his Mate. “You earn one with each skill you master and that Tom Yukimura helps make an actual physical manifestation of each one.”

The second part he'd learned a few months after Parrish's transformation, when he'd earned his own healing tail and told Derek of how he was flying to New York for the weekend to talk with the Yukimuras and pick his new tail up. The comment had struck the Werewolf as strange, but after a full explanation of how it all worked, he finally got it. He talked to Stiles about it later that night, the Kitsune telling him that Mr Y was in charge of keeping Noshiko's tails safe and that he made them for both Stiles and Kira out of some hard black rock he could never remember the name of.

Stiles nodded on his couch, hands gliding over the lid of the box. “A Kitsune's tails are everything,” he reminded his Mate, staring down at the wood once again. “Without them, they lose their powers and in extreme cases, their lives. It's incredibly important to keep them safe at all times.”

Derek slowly nodded, licking his lips. Last part made a whole lotta sense. Wouldn't want them to fall into the wrong hands. Parrish had once told him that if someone held onto a Kitsune's tails, they could actually use them to control the Kitsune itself, hence him hiding his in an undisclosed location and never having shown Derek what it actually was.

Taking a deep breath, the younger man flicked out a claw and used it to unlock the latch before opening the box. Unable to resist it, Derek stepped over and sat down next to his Mate, peering inside.

The box was lined with burgundy velvet, nine slots sitting parallel in the main compartment, four of them occupied with a six inch black rectangle. Stiles slipped one of them out, holding it to the older man who took it with great care and inspected it. It was about an inch wide along most of it, the final inch or so about half that, an inch thick all along it. It was almost like a fan that was folded up, making it look like a rectangular bat.

“It's a tessen,” Stiles informed him, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Most tails are modeled after a traditional Japanese weapon of some form and when I told Mr Y about how I used to hit you with that plastic wiffle ball bat, remember?” He paused as Derek nodded at the memory, the then-human using the toy on the Werewolf during babysitting sessions as they played some dumb game or another, Stiles wielding it like a weapon. “He said a tessen would be perfect for me.”

The older man nodded as he kept inspecting it, cocking an eyebrow in question. “What exactly is a tessen?”

Stiles smirked, eyes sparkling with knowledge and delight. “It's a sneaky Samurai weapon,” he explained, slipping another one out his box. “Usually they unfold into a metal fan, or a regular fan with steel edges used for cutting, but sometimes they're just like this and only look like a fan. But they're good for defense or for sneaking a weapon into a place where swords, knives, or shuriken aren't allowed.”

His bottom lip stuck out in an impressed pout, thinking the stealthy weapon was very Stiles. Mr Yukimura clearly knew what he was doing when he crafted the tails for the Kitsune.

“Very cool,” he commented as he handed the tessen back, watching his Mate put both back in their slots. “But I gotta ask, what's that gotta do with Christmas and making memories?”

The anxiety flooded back into Stiles' scent as he closed the lid and snapped the latch into place, locking it back up. “For obvious reasons, it's a bad idea for a Kitsune to keep their tails on them at all times and usually, they give them to someone they trust with their own life.” An amused snort rocked him before he see-sawed his head. “Which, obviously, since it's their actual life at stake.”

Derek inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs as anticipation built up inside. He had a feeling he knew where the other man was going with his words, but didn't wanna jump to any conclusions and wind up wrong and incredibly disappointed.

“Point I'm tryna make,” Stiles began then paused, taking a deep, shaky breath and exhaling long. “Is that while I trust my dad and Scott with my life, I can't imagine anyone taking better care of my tails—and in turn, taking care of me—than you.” With a shaky smile, he slid the box onto Derek's lap, swallowing hard as he pulled his hands back.

The Werewolf sat frozen, jaw hanging, brows raised in shock. Staring down at the lid, he noted the earlier scratches, realizing that while there were scuff marks—not a surprise with Stiles—the markings he'd believed to be scratches were actually carvings, Japanese characters running in three vertical lines. He ran a finger over them reverently, feeling a great sense of importance, even though he couldn't read them.

“It's my name,” the Kitsune explained, scratching his head then pointing to the characters. “And 'Kasai'.”

“Your kind of Kitsune,” the older man stated on automatic before lifting his head to note the grin on his Mate's face, the sparkle in his eyes that had nothing to do with the Christmas lights shining around them.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, scent full of happiness and pride, clearly touched that the deputy had remembered that fact.

Nodding, Derek licked his lips and looked back down at the box, hands smoothing over the wood before he held on to the sides. “I'll protect this with my own life.”

“I know,” the younger man said without hesitation, still grinning. “That's why I gave it to you.”

More nodding before he carefully placed it on the coffee table, careful not to knock over the iPod dock, noting it was now playing Rod Stewart's version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, the slow melody perfect for the moment.

“Kinda wish I had tails to give to you,” Derek stated as he leaned back on the couch, scratching at his whisker-covered jaw as he kept staring at the box. “Just feels like I should reciprocate or something.” With a sigh and a shrug, he turned to his Mate, corner of his lips curving up. “Guess you'll just have to settle for holding on to my heart.”

Stiles lit up even more than the tree and all the lights in the loft combined, diving at Derek and crashing their lips together. They rearranged so they were laying stretched out on the couch, the Kitsune sprawled over him, his head on the arm of the sofa, lips moving together in a passionate but unhurried way. The lights created a soft glow around them, Christmas music played on in the background, and Derek got lost in the feel, taste, and scent of his Mate.

The way things were meant to be.